Sow The Wind
by Keesha
Summary: The three musketeers are in the early stages of what will become a lifelong friendship. At this point, the musketeer regiment is made up of nobles who grudgingly acknowledge the Inseparables prowess in fighting, but really believe that they should not be part of the garrison, unless it is as servants. The three men are all trying to find their place in the world.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Some of my stories are starting to fall into my own a timeline. This particular piece fits in after 'Not Easily Broken'. I simply can't thank Mountain Cat enough for all her help on this story. We have been working on this piece for close to a year and at 50 chapters it is like a small novel. She has proofed it, kept continuity, encouraged and greatly assisted when I wrote myself into a corner. You have no idea how supportive and wonderful it is to have such a great beta reader. I hope you enjoy. I'll do my usual post one chapter a day (because I love to read new reviews each day). If you are a binge reader come back in 50 days.

CHAPTER 1

The regiment met up with the Spanish soldiers three leagues from the village, heading deeper into French territory. The musketeers, fifty strong, were sorely outnumbered by the Spanish, but they were better equipped, better trained, fighting for their homeland and in the end that was enough for the musketeers to take the day.

Overall, Treville led his men to a resounding victory, with only three deaths and two career ending injuries amongst his troop, though to Treville, the loss of even one musketeer was one too many. However, considering the Spanish force was twice as large as had been reported, the Captain felt blessed his regiment's death toll wasn't higher. None of his musketeers escaped the cuts and bruises that come with a vicious battle, that was part of being a soldier, but thankfully very few had met their maker today.

In the slowly fading light, Treville set his men to create order from the chaos on the battlefield that surrounded them. The site was checked over one last time for survivors before the Spanish dead were stacked to one side to be buried in the morning. The three deceased musketeers were carefully wrapped in blankets and gently placed in the back of a wagon to be brought home to Paris for a proper burial. The wounded from both sides were receiving aid and, come morning, the musketeers that couldn't ride would be placed in wagons for the journey home. The prisoners too would have a bumpy wagon ride to the jails of Paris, though they, unlike the musketeers, would be bound for the trip. Showing mercy to one's enemies only went so far.

The musketeers' campsite was coming into being, with cooking fires being lit, bedrolls being arranged and the horses groomed and staked out. Treville was proud to see his regiment going about their duties with minimal direction from him. He wanted them, needed them, to be self-sufficient as he wouldn't always be there to guide them. Allade, one of his Lieutenants, was doing an admirable job overseeing the regiment; he was an asset for the company. Not all of his officers possessed his capabilities.

Thinking on the regiment's assets, the Captain's deliberations turned to the trio that had become a unit about four months ago; two of his experienced soldiers, Porthos and Aramis, and the Comte turned musketeer, Athos, though only Treville knew of the swordsman's past life. At Athos' request, Treville had kept the secret of Athos' birthright to himself, though he wondered how long the taciturn man could keep his status as the Comte de la Fére from his two inquisitive teammates.

They really were young men still Treville mused, though he tended to forget that because the trio performed like seasoned veterans, more so than some of the soldiers who had served with him for years. Aramis and Porthos had seen the harsh environment of combat; not merely duels, brawls, or barroom battles, but honest to God 'I need to kill you or I will be killed' war. A fight over a piece of land, an ideal, or sometimes simply a perceived slight where there was a winner, but mostly an unacceptable number of causalities making both sides really losers. The third member of the trio, Athos, was new to the harshness of actual combat against trained soldiers, which was what had occurred here today.

The trio's bourgeoning partnership was gradually flourishing, though it still had many awkward moments. After Athos had finally agreed to join the regiment and received his commission, Porthos and Aramis had taken the reserved, moody recruit under their wings to teach him the real world of soldiering. While Athos was book-learned and quick to pick up on things, hardening and field experience was something that only came with time, and Porthos and Aramis were guiding him in this journey.

And what a journey it had been so far. In the few months Athos had been officially part of the musketeers, Aramis and Porthos had involved him in brawls with the Red Guards, barroom battles and even a duel if the Captain's sources were correct. Treville at one point wondered if the two were a bad influence on the Comte turned solider. But rumors, and his own eyes had shown him Athos was no saint himself under that seemingly calm facade. When in the mood, Athos could be quite the instigator himself, as the Red Guard had found out the hard way, or so he had heard from the Cardinal himself in a rather loud and heated conversation. While the man in red was not able to say exactly how things came to be, the incident between the Red Guard and the musketeers did not sit well with the religious leader and First Minister of France. Cardinal Richelieu was absolutely furious because his guards were made to look the fool by the musketeers in a very clever and public manner. The whole incident had the fingerprints of Aramis and Porthos all over it, but with a heightened level of sophistication which Treville was willing to bet was Athos' influence. It wasn't the first and would surely not be the last time he wondered if teaming the three up was a good idea.

Though Aramis and Porthos were mentoring Athos, there was no doubt in Treville's mind that the swordsman was becoming the de facto leader of the trio, as he had known would eventually occur. Athos had an innate leadership quality, even if the man did not yet realize it himself. This was both good and bad, for in most situations, without trying or even meaning too, Athos assumed the leadership role. Men sensed the natural leader in him, and gravitated towards him, often away from the person who actually had been put in charge. It had caused some hard feelings already, Treville knew, when a leader of a task suddenly realized that all his followers were not listening to him, but rather to Athos.

Athos, for the most part, didn't deliberately set out to take over any group he was part of and more typically remained in the background. However, he did have the intrinsic ability to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right answer, and suddenly people were looking to him to lead. Treville also knew, if Athos was uncomfortable with a decision of his leader, he wasn't afraid to ask questions, having a sense of sureness about him that came from growing up as a Comte. However, to the outside world, especially another leader, these questions, which almost had the appearance of challenges to their authority, were annoying and many leaders thought a sign of insubordination.

This insubordination had been noted and commented upon by the leaders of a few groups to which Athos had been assigned. Most of the time it was unintentional Treville felt, a by-product of Athos' upbringing and natural leadership. But since no one knew he was a Comte, they thought him uppity.

Occasionally, though, Treville had noted it was deliberate; that Athos was going out of his way to consciously dance on the edge of insubordination, especially if he felt the leader was wrong and doing something dangerous. Or if the leader was being a cultural elite and picking on people he considered below his station; this seemed to really bother Athos, who treated men by their actions not their rank. And sometimes Athos was defiant, Treville swore, simply because he could be and he enjoyed being the rebel that no one suspected behind his cool, indifferent façade.

Treville had called Athos to the carpet a few times on his recalcitrant behavior. He tried to get the new musketeer to realize he was inadvertently building a reputation as being an insubordinate troublemaker with some of the regiment's leaders, especially the high-ranking nobles who found Athos to be an enigma who didn't show enough deference to their social status. One, Lieutenant Roudon, particularly seemed offended. Athos' attitude of indifference coupled with innate superiority left the others wanting to crack-down hard on him as a perceived way to keep him in line.

Since Treville had brought Athos into the regiment, there had been those that had questioned him on whether it was a wise move. It hadn't helped that Athos ended up friends with two of the regiment's other renegades and social misfits. That had been one of Treville's concerns when he paired them all up; that a portion of the regiment might turn against the trio. However, for as many men as turned away from the odd trio, others showed respect for the best swordsman, marksman and fighter in the regiment.

Treville pondered more on the trio. During practice in the garrison, working as a unit to defend against all challengers, they had impressed the Captain and he wasn't disappointed when he watched them fight in battle today. Already, they were instinctively watching out for each other and were a mighty force with which to be reckoned. Their unique specialties, the swordsman, the marksman and the streetfighter made them an unpredictable, deadly combination. And the growing bond between the trio made them three times as dangerous; woe be to anyone that tried to hurt one of them, for the others would respond in kind and it wouldn't be pretty.

Off the battlefield, the group was also interesting to observe. They tended to ride near each other and slightly away from the main body, especially Athos and his touchy black stallion, Roger, both of whom gave the distinct impression that company was neither required nor appreciated. But Roger's stablemates, Fidget and Flip, and their riders, blithely ignored the 'do not trespass' signs and were always nearby, just on the edge of crowding the duo. And, from what Treville observed, he thought Athos, if one ignored his outward appearances, inwardly was enjoying having them there, at least on some levels.

Scanning the surroundings for the three musketeers, the Captain found them, one by one, for they each were tackling different jobs. Aramis was the easiest to locate because Treville knew the medic-musketeer would be assisting with the wounded. The best marksman of the regiment was also a surprisingly skilled medic and his needlework on wounds was unmatched. Porthos also was easy to spot. The strong musketeer had the unenviable job of hauling the dead bodies of the Spanish to the place where they were to be buried in a communal grave come morning. His natural strength and fortitude made him well suited for the job, though that didn't mean he enjoyed it. Within that well-muscled body beat a generous heart that felt more than most people ever realized, especially those who judged him solely on his appearance.

A hint of a frown crossed Treville's face when he finally spotted his newest recruit, alone on the battlefield, simply standing. As self-assured as Athos might seem, Treville was sure the young man had never faced such carnage as he had here today. Reading books about famous battles was one thing; participating in a real one was totally another. Rubbing a hand over his stubbly chin, the Captain debated if he should approach Athos now, or later, to try to reassure him his feelings were normal. A very private person, the swordsman would not appreciate an audience as he obviously struggled to make sense of the world about him. However, Treville knew at some point he had to talk to the young man, guide him, help him get over the shock of his first battle. It was all part of being a soldier and the feelings he was sure were coursing through Athos' body were natural, not something to be embarrassed or ashamed about, but rather a lesson to be learned.

Treville never wanted any of his men to stop feeling remorse or compassion for their enemy, for if they did, they became no better than mercenaries. But he did expect them to process their deaths, then move on, not bottle their feelings up and let them fester away at their souls. And that was the lesson he needed to impart to Athos, as he had done countless times before to other young soldiers.

He also wanted to address the times where he felt Athos had overstepped his bounds and not listened to what his leader had told him today. The young man had been a little headstrong and while it worked out, it also could have had a direr outcome. He had no doubts that Lieutenant Roudon would catch his ear at some point to complain about Athos.

As he was preparing to head in Athos' direction, Lieutenant Allade appeared at his side informing him of an issue requiring his immediate attention. With a quiet sigh, Treville turned away from the lonely man on the battlefield and followed Allade. He'd have to address his issues with Athos later.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

The wind tried to ruffle his mussed brown hair, but sweat had plastered it to his skull and only the wavy tips were able to flutter in the breeze. His breath still came out in occasional harsh gasp as his distressed green eyes swept the landscape around him. His stomach was roiled and was on the edge of staging a revolt. His normally calm facade was cracking and on the verge of crumbling into a million shattered pieces.

It was over. It felt like he had been battling for an eternity, fighting for his very survival. Repelling attack after attack with no time for any thought that didn't keep him alive and ready to meet his next foe. And now it was over and his mind was horrified, shocked and numb at the carnage scattered around him.

Athos let his eyes drop from scanning the battlefield where he stood, which was littered with dead men, to the bloodstained weapons of war in his hands. His rapier and main gauche were bathed in the blood of the enemy. Though he would clean each one thoroughly, scrubbing, sanding and honing away the life fluid of his adversaries, he realized the memory of what occurred here today would not be so easily dismissed. There was no denying he had been fundamentally changed by what had transpired and from that there was no going back. Survival meant learning to process, accept and move forward; but it wasn't going to be easy.

War was nothing like what he'd read in the books. Dry tomes would never be able to capture the sights, sounds, smells and emotions that made up a real battlefield. There was no glory. Yes, one side prevailed, in this case the musketeers, but at what price? Up to now, when he had killed someone, he knew why; he knew exactly what they had done to deserve being shot or run through by his blade. If the truth be told, he really had only killed a few men in his life and each one he could personally declare why they had to die. Even his wife, though he quickly clamped down those thoughts before they could spread and add to his misery.

But today he had killed men just because they were on the opposing side. Yes, they were the so-called enemy, soldiers of Spain that were illegally on French soil. Yes, they had killed innocent French civilians in the nearby village. But had every single Spanish soldier he killed today deserved to die? Had each one he had dispatched to heaven or hell committed an atrocious crime that required death? How many were simply soldiers who died for nothing more than following orders?

Following orders, another place he knew he'd failed today. More than once he had found himself unwilling or unable to carry out the intentions of Lieutenant Roudon. It wasn't that he thought he knew better, well not always. Even though he was the inexperienced one, Roudon had made at least one serious mistake in Athos' books, one which he felt had almost caused Porthos to lose his life. Roudon had ordered Porthos to charge into a situation, alone, that would have gotten him killed had Athos not 'convinced' the rest of the men that they all were meant to charge forward. Roudon had not been happy to see all his men suddenly advancing not just the one he'd ordered. Roudon would surely complain and Treville would have a talk with Athos once more. But Athos struggled with the concept of following an order that didn't make sense, at least to him. And that, he supposed, was where the difficulty lay. If being a soldier meant blindly following a leader he didn't respect, Athos had a feeling the musketeers were not going to be a place where he could survive.

His mind was such a whirlwind, he barely registered Porthos' arrival at his side. That six sense that was beginning to form between the trio gave him just enough of an inkling so that he didn't do more than flinch when Porthos dropped a hand onto his shoulder.

Porthos let his eyes drift across the field to the large grey-black birds who were circling in the sky and he had to suppress a small shudder.

"Scavengers. I hate them," the streetfighter declared vehemently. "Though, they did make me become a musketeer.

As he glared at the skies watching the carrion birds circle lazily in the thermals, Porthos' mind drifted to the past. The streetfighter detested those birds. To him, they represented death. After every battle he'd been in, they appeared, the harbingers of the underworld. Trying for a moment to be charitable, he acknowledged they had a place in life, and he knew what it was like to be hungry, so he supposed it wasn't their fault, but it didn't mean he had to like it.

He'd actually met one, so to speak, up close and personal. It had been after a skirmish near the border of Spain. A blow to the head had rendered him unconscious on the battlefield. Luckily, when he went down, he took three other soldiers with him, so he ended up on the bottom of a pile of bodies. On the surface that might not sound blessed, but it proved to be when the Spanish, who won the day, had come around to ensure all the enemy were truly dead. Even though he was alive, he'd been overlooked at the bottom of the stack of human flesh and that had saved his life.

When he woke, he'd felt like he had the weight of the world pressing on him, but after a minute he realized it was three deceased soldiers, pinning his limbs and torso to the earth. After a moment or two to marshal his reserves, he'd shoved the bodies off until he was free. While he was pleased, the vulture that had been having a midday snack on the top body, was not as happy. The bird had flapped its massive wings, which were brown shaded down to black on the top, and all black underneath. When the bird spread its wings, it was as if a shroud of death was flapping in his face, which had caused Porthos to quake. Having shown its displeasure, the vulture had drawn its wings back to its sides and simply stared at its food, which had dared to move before it could be eaten.

The bird's head, neck, and part of its chest were surprisingly white, not such a good design Porthos had thought, given the bird's bloody, raw, carnivorous nature. What was more surprising, and perhaps even a bit comical, was the ruff of brown feathers around the lowest portion of the griffin vulture's neck. It almost gave the bird a slightly clownish look, until one noticed the dark grey beak with the business-like hook which left nothing to the imagination; there was nothing laughable about this bird's mission or intentions. And that vulture had not been alone. A small rotation of Porthos' head had shown a flock of vultures that was picking its way across the quiet battlefield.

Porthos had struggled to sit up for many reasons that day, not the least was to prove to this carnivore that he was not its next meal. The vulture had remained mostly unimpressed, simply hopping a few feet to the right, but never taking its dark, beady eyes off the wiggling soldier. Slowly, but steadily, Porthos had made it to his feet and stood in the midday sun, gazing about him. The battle clearly was over and based on what he saw, had been for a while, making him wonder just how long he was unconscious. There was no sign of human life anywhere. Porthos wasn't sure who had won and he wasn't sure which scenario was worse. Either the Spanish had won, or the French had won and deliberately left him behind. It wouldn't have surprised him to be forgotten; many of his fellow soldiers felt his presence, as one of mixed heritage, was undesirable even in a simple infantry unit. It had made him think back on the offer he had been recently presented by a Captain Treville, who was putting together a troop of elite soldiers to guard the King. Musketeers the Captain had called them.

Porthos had been shocked that he'd been sought out, personally, by this Captain and he had jokingly asked the man if he were colorblind, to which the man had answered he judged men by their worth, not their skin color or their parentage. Porthos had found it hard to believe that simple statement, for in his experience that was not how the world operated. He had to wonder if the man was not whom he seemed to be and his skepticism must have shown on his face for the Captain had smiled gently, repeated his offer and told Porthos to think upon it and get back to him when he was ready. There had been no doubt in Porthos' mind that Captain Treville was sure the streetfighter would join his new regiment of musketeers. It was on that battlefield, as he stood there wondering if his own regiment had abandoned him, that Porthos had decided that he would seek out this Captain Treville of the musketeers and see if he was a man of his word. And so, he had come to join the musketeers as one of the founding members.

Porthos came out of his reverie to find Athos looking at him with a curious expression, one eyebrow slightly peaked.

"I had been left by the bastards for dead and one of those," he nodded towards the circling vultures, "eyed me up for dinner."

Reading between the lines, Athos understood the bastards in this story weren't necessarily the birds.

"Not long before that battle, Captain Treville had sought me out to join his musketeers. He said he didn't care what color my skin was, or who my parents were, he simply saw me as a good soldier. So, when I got back to Paris, I looked him up and accepted his offer."

Athos' eyes shifted away from his friend to the littered landscape. "And so, you became a musketeer."

"I know. Sounds crazy." A small grin crossed Porthos' face. "But then again, you were run over by the Captain's horse and ended up joining the musketeers."

Athos let the side of his mouth quirk in what passed as a smile most times for the somber man. "I had a lot of prodding."

"And with good reason. You make a damn fine musketeer. You did great today. Always had Aramis' and my back," Porthos praised his friend. "I also know you defied Roudon to save my life."

"As you two had mine," the swordsman noted ignoring the comment about Roudon, which he did not want to discuss. "But still…" His eyes swept the dead men surrounding them.

Porthos, following Athos' gaze, nodded. "Oi. War ain't ever pretty. But trust me, you want to be where you are standing and not where they are lying."

Athos gave a quick, though unsure, nod.

"Come on. We're burying the dead of our enemy. Help me with moving these bodies over by the rest of their brethren."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

For the next few hours, Athos and Porthos worked together to ferry the deceased from the scene of the battle to a mass grave site that was being excavated. When Athos went to help lift the first body, the sword gash on his side let it be known it was not pleased and he barely contained the moan that tried to escape his clamped lips. He turned his back on his companions for a moment while he fought back the black dots dancing on the edge of his vision and schooled his face into what he prayed was a neutral expression. When the swordsman turned back around, he saw Porthos looking at him sympathetically.

"It's tough," he commiserated, thinking Athos was finding the work distasteful. "But it's the right thing to do. I don't wish those disgusting buzzards feeding on anyone. Not even the Spanish."

Athos nodded, not letting on that it wasn't burying the dead that was upsetting him, but rather his throbbing side. Surreptitiously glancing down at his left side, he discovered the advantage of wearing black leathers; not only did they hide dirt well, but also blood. He could feel the warm blood occasionally trickling down his skin from the wound, but there was no visible sign on his doublet. And though he knew there must be a rent from the sword, the dark material made it hard to detect, especially given the fact he also wore a dark shirt under the jacket. His injury was safely camouflaged and would remain that way until this job was done. He wouldn't have it said he didn't pull his weight. Many of the musketeers were skeptical that Treville had been correct in inducting him into the regiment. His drinking, coupled with his reticent nature, made the other men distrustful, not that he blamed them. He, too, often wondered if he was fit to be a musketeer.

By the time all the bodies were relocated, Athos and the rest of the musketeers were sweaty and tired. The light was nearly gone, so they would wait for the morning to proceed with the burial. The men began to wander off towards the cooking fires, hungry and thirsty. Porthos followed along with the group, though Athos did not, which caused the streetfighter to halt and walk back over to where his friend still stood.

"Coming?" he inquired politely of the swordsman.

Athos was feeling overwhelmed by everything that had occurred today; his side was aching, and he had almost a panicking need to be alone, if only for a few moments. He had grown up a rather secluded child, without many friends, in a large house with only one sibling, and had become accustom to a certain level of solitude. He needed some private time to regroup, afraid that his tremulous feelings were painted all over his normally stoic facade.

"During the fighting, I think Roger's fetlock may have been nicked. I am going to go assure he is unharmed," the Comte smoothly lied, one of his rather strange talents, considering his strict upbringing as a member of the nobility.

The streetfighter, who had spent a considerable amount of time with Athos on their near disastrous trip to Dieppe where they had been enslaved, understood his friend's occasional need for solitude, so he didn't try to persuade him otherwise. He merely nodded, adding "Don't be long or I might eat your rations too. I'm starving."

Again, the corner of Athos' lips quirked at the musketeer's comment. Porthos was always hungry and never missed an opportunity for a meal. Growing up on the streets of Paris, the streetfighter had been hungry more often than not and, as an adult, it seemed he was trying to make up for all those lost meals.

As Athos headed off to where the horses had been picketed, Porthos strode over to where the food was being set out for the troops. As he was passing by the make-shift infirmary, he saw Aramis emerging from the tent that had been set up to shield the wounded. The marksman looked exhausted, but perked up when he saw Porthos.

"Burial duty?" Aramis asked as he fell into step alongside his friend.

Sighing, Porthos nodded. "Not always an advantage being the strongest musketeer."

Aramis gave him a knowing glance. "Nor the one with medical knowledge."

"Bad?"

"Bad enough. LeRue will probably lose his leg. And Durand's days as a swordsman are over too. Too much damage to his shoulder to ever recover full mobility." Aramis scrubbed a weary hand over his face. "And we lost, Camus, and Hune." He stopped rubbing his face letting his weary brown eyes scan the horizon. His eyes lit upon the lifeless mounds of Spanish soldiers awaiting burial in the morning. "Though it could have been worse. A lot worse."

Tracking where his friend's gaze was lingering, Porthos nodded in agreement. "We were fortunate. Captain Treville is a good commander."

"That he is," Aramis agreed as he slung an arm over Porthos' shoulder. "Let's go grab some food. I'm famished." After giving a hearty slap to the streetfighter's leather clad shoulder, he dropped his hand and headed off towards where the food was being prepared. "It's amazing that after all that I have seen in that tent, that I'm hungry."

"I'm always hungry." Porthos thought for a moment. "I don't think much would make me want to miss a meal."

"And speaking of missing, where's Athos?"

"Food first," Porthos declared, heading to the end of the line of soldiers waiting for their rations.

Grabbing two bowls and spoons, he handed one to Aramis, then joined the line of men waiting to have what appeared to be a stew ladled into their bowls. Nourishing, but nothing like what ole Serge could prepare in the garrison. Still, it was hot food which was better than cold trail rations and there was freshly baked flat bread.

After getting their stew, Porthos snagged a few of the flat breads the cooks had prepared, then he and Aramis headed over to an empty log that they used as a bench. Settling themselves on the bark-covered surface, they dug into their meal and ate in silence for a few minutes.

When Aramis' bowl was half-empty, and Porthos' completely gone, the marksman restated his inquiry. "Athos?"

Porthos looked up from his empty bowl, which he was swabbing out with a piece of bread. "Off to see his horse." Rising, the streetfighter rejoined the dwindling line of soldiers to get a second helping of stew. Bringing the nearly overflowing bowl back to the log, he sat again and began eating, though at a little more sedate pace.

Aramis sopped up some of his stew's juices with his bread, but before stuffing it in his mouth he asked, "Did Roger get hurt?"

Answering around a mouthful of food, the dark-skinned musketeer mumbled, "Doubt it. Think it was an excuse. To get away. Be alone for a bit."

Silence reigned for a few more moments before Aramis spoke. "We still don't know much about Athos' past, but I'd wager a sizable amount this was his first major battle."

"Oi. Think you're right."

"Don't get me wrong. Athos acquitted himself well today. But he made a few tactical errors that speak of needing some seasoning. Small things…"

"Small things get you killed," Porthos empathetically stated.

"… matter, which is why," Aramis said with an easy smile, "he has us to guard his back and show him the ropes. We'll grant him his solitude, for a bit. If he doesn't show up in a reasonable amount of time, we'll drag his melancholy soul back to the fold."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

After hunting around where the horses were picketed, finally Athos found his saddle bags. Rummaging in the leather satchels, he grabbed Roger's curry comb before moving over to where the black stallion was peacefully standing, his right rear leg cocked with relaxation. Athos reached up with a weary hand and rubbed the velvety black muzzle with affection. The horse gently chuffed on Athos by way of a greeting. As the swordsman began running the comb over the black stallion's coat, the animal half-closed his eyes and grunted in contentment. Methodically, as he tried to clear his mind, Athos worked his way down one side of his mount and then the other. When he got back to Roger's shoulder, he let his arms hang slack and buried his face in the warm animal's coat. The images from today's battle rushed back into his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. He flung his left hand over the horse's withers to help him remain upright. He had killed and wounded so many men today, with no more thought than his own survival, which was what war was all about he supposed. Still, it made him feel uneasy, as if he was wrong somehow.

With his eyes closed, he unintentionally let his mind drift back to that fateful day he had hanged his wife. Upheld the law. Did his duty, but shattered his own hopes and dreams. It had been more than a year and yet it still hurt his heart and soul as if it only happened yesterday. He had thought, maybe hoped, he could banish his old life and silence his memories by renouncing his past and remaking himself over as a soldier. Do some good serving his King and country. Maybe redeem a small piece of his hell-bound soul. But given how he felt after his first battle, he was not so sure now.

Opening his eyes, he pushed off Roger's shoulder, swaying on his feet. God was he tired. He hadn't really slept in days. The gash in his side was throbbing, his stomach was roiled, his head ached and all he wanted to do was curl up in a ball and sleep. However, he knew exactly what would happen if he did, the nightmares would begin. He'd be haunted by the past and the new horrors from today and wake screaming and covered in sweat. Not exactly how he wanted to be seen by his already skeptical fellow musketeers. Yes, Aramis, Porthos and, he thought, Treville knew his nights were haunted, but not the rest of the regiment and he'd rather like to keep it that way even if that meant a few more sleepless nights.

His eyes drifted to his saddlebags lying on the ground next to his saddle. Like a siren, it was calling him and he blindly pushed off Roger and made his way over to his bags. Opening the left-hand pouch, his fingers eagerly sought the bottle that was nestled within its depths. Drawing it forth, he removed the cork and guzzled down the golden liquid. It burned like fire when it hit the back of his throat and continued in a fiery lava flow down to his empty stomach where his greedy, dehydrated bloodstream soaked up the alcohol. After taking a second long hit off the bottle, he began to realize the earth was wobbling and the headache he'd been nursing all day had begun throbbing with an alcohol-fueled vengeance.

The words that ran through his mind as he stumbled to his knees would have made a sailor blush. They didn't get any better when his stomach decided to revolt after he hit the bottle for a third time. The alcohol had burned going down and was equally as painful coming back up. He knelt there, retching in the grass, berating himself for being such an idiot. In the last four months, under the gentle coaxing and watchfulness of Aramis and Porthos, he had found less time and need to indulge. Their subtle, yet not so subtle campaign to keep him relatively dry, along with Treville's warnings and conditions when he became a musketeer, had helped him break his addiction, mostly, though he still had his moments; now was one of them.

Furtively glancing around, he was relieved to note it was only the horses watching him make a jackass of himself. Drinking such strong brandy on an empty stomach, while suffering from blood loss and dehydration was simply stupid. However, none of the horses, save Roger, offered any comment on his behavior. Roger, who'd seen him do stupid things like this before, simply shook his head, as if in disgust, though in reality it was probably just to unseat a fly. Wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Athos unsteadily climbed to his feet, then made his way over to the saddlebags and tucked away the bottle. He supposed a real recovering alcoholic might have the resolve to pour out the bottle of temptation; but he was not that sold on the idea of sobriety.

With a stifled groan, he walked past Roger giving him a quick pat on the rump. The stallion let out a soft whinny as Athos continued heading back towards the encampment. The light breeze carried both the scents of the camp and the battlefield, a combination that didn't sit well with Athos' alcohol-abused stomach. Swinging wide to the right of the camp, he decided to make his way down to the stream that he had seen earlier. The thought of being able to wash off in the crystal-clear cool water held great appeal to his aching head and battle-grimed body.

Unbeknownst to him, his avoidance of the encampment did not go as unnoticed as he had hoped. Treville, who had a six sense of his own for his men, looked up at the right moment to see the retreating musketeer. Slowly, the Captain rose from where he had been eating dinner, handed his plate and cup to those that would be cleaning up and quietly set out after Athos.

Athos was grateful to see that there was no one near the river. Even so, he moved upstream some ways to ensure his privacy. Standing on the edge of the grassy bank, near an outcropping of rocks, he stared at the water as it flowed by his grimy boots. It was clear. Clean. Untainted. With a frustrated moan, he stripped off his gloves, soiled by the events of the day and flung them on the grass in disgust. Quickly dropping to his leather-clad knees next to the flowing water, he reached out and scooped up the icy cold liquid, repeatedly splashing it on his face. However, it still didn't feel as if it were really cleansing, so he bent over and shoved his head under the water.

He knew what he was really trying to cleanse was his tarnished soul, something that his mind would never allow. Holding his head in place under water, he nearly blacked out before he allowed himself to lift it. Giving it a shake, he flung his hair out of his eyes and then groaned again when the motion made his headache worse. Hunching over, he retched pitifully on the grass, bringing up some of the brandy still sloshing around in his fire-torn belly.

Sitting back on his heels, he let the water drip down his overheated body, which made the drops feel like ice chips as they slid over his hot flesh. Running his hand through his sodden locks, he angrily shoved them out of his face. It was then that he realized he was no longer the only one at the river's edge. Glancing upwards, he saw his Captain standing next to him. With as much dignity as he could muster, Athos forced himself to his feet and stood at a quiet attention in front of his commanding officer. The wet musketeer focused his eyes at a distant spot on the horizon over Treville's left shoulder.

Treville silently studied the man standing in front of him struggling to keep his own face neutral. The Captain knew that Athos would not respond well to anything that suggested he was being pitied, even if he, an experienced soldier, still remembered how hard it was after one's first real battle. Unfortunately, it was an experience that engraved itself in one's soul. Great soldiers used it to ensure they remained respectful and felt remorse for their enemies. Bad soldiers used it to fuel their warped minds, allowing them to create even greater atrocities in the name of war. The Captain knew it was his job to teach the young soldier standing in front of him which path to follow. He decided to address the obvious issue first, for he could smell the reek of alcohol.

"Drinking on an empty stomach, while dehydrated, is never a smart move, not to mention I will not have my men drinking while on duty. Technically, on a mission, you are on duty day and night," he sternly lectured Athos in his authoritative Captain's voice.

Without taking his eyes off the fading horizon, Athos gave a quick nod to indicate he received the message.

"Though," Treville continued, softening his tone as he began to walk towards the river, "I can understand why you did it. But let me tell you, from experience, it doesn't make the nightmare of what occurred today, on the battlefield, ever disappear. Only time, and a proper frame of mind, can tame that demon."

Athos rotated his eyes to watch as Treville moved up the river to a group of flattish boulders near the water's edge. The older man settled with a slight groan on one of the grey speckled rocks. "I'm getting old. Come. Sit before you fall down."

Athos didn't realize he had been swaying slightly with exhaustion as he stood there listening. Somewhat sheepishly, he walked over to where Treville sat and, after the Captain gave him a nod, he too settled on a flattish rock.

"Pretty brutal. What happened on the battlefield today," Treville started off in a low-key, conversational manner.

Athos didn't say anything, but watched his Captain guardedly, unsure where this was going and feeling like he was being led down a path he didn't want to traverse. One on one conversations were never his forte and in truth he preferred silence to speech. As a Comte, he was trained in the art of discourse and he actually was quite accomplished in that area, but like many things it made him…uncomfortable.

The Captain glanced over at the young swordsman who was warily watching him. "Would you like me to tell you how you are feeling, Athos?"

Like a fox approaching what he is sure is a trap, the swordsman cautiously replied, "It seems unreasonable for you to believe you know what I am feeling."

Treville stretched a kink out of his back before settling more comfortably on the hard surface of the grey speckled rock. "No. Not really. You're relieved you're alive, mostly, but torn that your very survival depended on the deaths of so many others. You try to see them as 'the enemy' and yet realize that they are men, just like you, fighting to some degree because they were told. You're not sure, when you stare at the stacks of dead bodies, that whatever the battle was about, land, religion, or perceived slight, was worth all those men's lives. And you know what? You are right. It's not."

Athos was now fully staring at his Captain, his usually closed face wearing a look of disbelief that his Captain was on target about how he was feeling. Athos' anxiety level rose a notch for he was a very private man with trust issues and Treville was stepping all over his boundaries.

And Treville wasn't stupid. In fact, he was an astute judge of character. He knew he had walked passed Athos' 'do not trespass' signs and he had done so deliberately. The Captain knew the Comte had major trust issues and, given his limited knowledge of the young man's past, he understood some of the reasons. However, Athos was a musketeer and Treville wanted Athos to trust him, as his leader, as well as Aramis and Porthos to have his back. And if that meant carefully pushing the swordsman's boundaries, so be it.

"But as soldiers, it is what we signed up to do. Protect King and country. To kill men, whose only real crime might be they are doing what they were ordered to do. In single, one-on-one combat, you know your enemy, exactly what they did and why you are fighting them. It is easy to convince yourself that their death is righteous and honorable. But on the battlefield, in many cases, it is a lot harder to convince yourself. So, after the battle, when you are the one left standing by the grace of God, you feel a sense of guilt and remorse."

The fact that Athos suddenly looked away told Treville he had hit the nail on the head. Reaching over, he laid a gentle hand on Athos's forearm. "It's alright. I want you to feel that way."

"Why?" Athos asked in a tightly controlled voice, though he still kept his eyes adverted.

Giving the swordsman's arm a pat before removing his hand, Treville answered, "Because it means you are human and believe it or not, a good man. I'd be more concerned if you, or anyone in my regiment, could kill and walk away feeling nothing. It's not healthy. Life is precious and none of us have the right to arbitrarily end another's."

Athos turned his piercing green eyes on his commander in a challenge. "And yet we do. And some lives are thrown away heedlessly."

Treville sighed, realizing Athos was a highly-educated man and was not inclined to take the easy road on anything. He also felt there was something more going on that he was yet to understand with this man. "Yes, we do kill. But I like to think it is not arbitrary. We are not walking down the streets of Paris killing the baker because he burnt a loaf of bread."

"No. We are walking in a meadow, killing men, because they are in the wrong place at the wrong time," Athos countered with an edge of sarcasm to his tone.

"No, because they were supporting the wrong cause or the perceived wrong cause." Treville sighed wearily, scrubbing his hand over his grim face. "And in the long run, only history will answer that question."

Athos green eyes turned thoughtful. "That is the crux of the matter it seems…perception." His eyes slid towards the creek. "Battles, as portrayed in books, don't begin to do justice to it all. The sounds, the smells, the onslaught, the sheer brutality." Running a hand through his wet hair, he noted it was trembling. He quickly dropped his shaky limb and tucked it under his legs.

The tremors didn't go unnoticed by Treville, though he didn't see any need to make comment on it. This was the young man's first battle and being disturbed in the aftermath of such an event was not uncommon. Athos might have had adventures as the son of one of the oldest families in France, might be an accomplished swordsman and a bright and educated man, but he had never been a real soldier in a real battle. The Captain would have been more worried if Athos had maintained the cool and aloof mannerisms he normally displayed. He knew, of course, that once Athos was back amongst the men of the regiment, his unruffled persona would re-emerge and no one, other than Aramis or Porthos, would ever suspect how shaken the swordsman was by the events of today.

"Athos," Treville started in a gentle, calm voice, "what you are feeling is natural. Nothing to be ashamed of or concerned about. I felt the same way after my first battle." A small grin crept over his face. "My first battle," he sighed. "Seems like a very long time ago, which it was, and yet every time I step on the field, I experience a second or two of remorse." He straightened slightly and looked Athos squarely in the eye. "But it quickly passes and will for you too, with time."

"Roudon has spoken with me." As Treville had predicted earlier, the Lieutenant was not happy with Athos' behavior. "Once again he felt you did not follow his orders even though he was in command of that sector." Athos looked away again, a sure sign he knew exactly the incident being referred to. "I realize your upbringing may have expected you to give, more than then follow, orders. But here, you are a new recruit, bound by oath to obey."

"Even when the orders show a lack of regard for another's life because they are not perceived to be as valuable as oneself?" Athos blurted out in anger, saying way more than he intended.

"What are you trying to say, Athos?" Treville demanded.

The swordsman grew quiet. He felt that many of the nobles in the regiment, such as Roudon, picked on Porthos because of his skin color and his station in life. As a species, Athos knew many humans tended to judge harshly those that were different. But Athos had spent many months with the 'street rat' as Porthos was called behind his back. He knew the musketeer was one of the most trustworthy men he'd ever known. Rough edges, yes, but a heart bigger than all of France and equally as intelligent. But the elitists only saw Porthos' size and skin color and assumed him inferior.

Athos once had a brief conversation with Porthos on the way the regiment treated him and the big man had not denied at times it made him both sad and angry. But Porthos had also told him you can't force people to change their mind. You could talk to them until you were blue in the face, the streetfighter had told him, or even punch them silly, but in the end the only one who could make them change their minds was themselves. So, Porthos had learned to stop trying to defend who he was and just be who he was and let people either accept him or not.

The swordsman had understood what Porthos had told him and fundamentally agreed, but his damn sense of right and wrong, pride and prejudice, wanted him to fight what he perceived was a great injustice being wrought upon a good man. Porthos had told him to leave it alone and yet every now and then Athos still choose to step in to try to right an injustice. Usually, he did it in a manner that made a point, but couldn't really be traced back to him. However, earlier today, when Roudon instructed Porthos to go forth, on his own, Athos was sure he was about to witness the death of his friend. So, he 'convinced' the rest of the troops to charge too, against Roudon's orders. It had been technically insubordination. But out of respect for Porthos, he would admit guilt to Treville, but leave out his reasons for what he had done earlier on the battlefield.

Turning his eyes back upon his commander, Athos admitted, "Though you have warned me, I acted against Lieutenant Roudon's orders today on the battlefield."

Treville remained silent for a while, knowing there was more Athos wanted to say but for some reason was holding back. When it looked as if the young man was going to remain silent, he sighed and then let his voice grow harsh. "You have been warned about this behavioral pattern. An order is an order whether it comes from me or one of my officers."

Rising from the rock, Treville made sure he held on to Athos' attention. "Remember, while we are musketeers, sworn by oath to protect our King and country, we are not the King or the judge. It is not our duty to decide the fate of a person. We do what we are ordered. Sometimes, you are going to be tempted to take justice into your own hands. Be careful of that path for it is rarely the right one. And if you do go down that trail, be prepared for the consequences." Treville took a deep breath, willing his own mind not to go down that path, for he had been tempted in his career to mete out his own justice. "Take some time for yourself here. Work through this. Then I expect you to report to the medical tent and get that wound taken care of." Treville could tell by the subtle signs Athos was displaying that the man was hurt; it was part of being a good Captain to know these things.

A quick round of panic flashed in Athos' eyes and Treville, perceiving it, added, "Or get Aramis to patch you up. He's better than most medics."

The scars that Athos carried from the slave ship made the musketeer uncomfortable and he preferred to keep their existence hidden, even though they were honorably earned. In time they would fade and, perhaps, his aversion would pass, but for the moment, Aramis could patch him up and keep his secrets.

"And Athos, remember," Treville said adding another lecture to the pile he'd already delivered, "hiding wounds does no one any good. You place yourself and your fellow soldiers at risk. No one would have thought less of you today if you had not hauled the dead bodies off the field."

The swordsman lowered his eyes to his stained shirt and nodded. He knew better, yet when Porthos had asked him to help with the dead, he felt it would have been noted unfavorably if he had refused. Porthos would have understood and in fact the streetfighter would now be furious when he saw the wound. However, Athos' odd lack of concern for his own welfare would not allow him to make any other decision. His father had taught him never to shirk his duty and though he didn't like a lot of the 'duties' of a Comte, he took the lesson to heart. Whatever Athos committed to, he did fully, completely and without reservation. It was what made him a great fighter, always completely having the back of those to whom he had sworn alliance. It was also the trait that was most likely to get him killed some day.


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Treville left Athos at the river and headed back to the camp with the intention to seek out Aramis and Porthos and tell them to keep an eye out for Athos. However, as he entered the perimeter of the camp, Lieutenant Allade caught his attention by waving in a rather insistent manner and Treville found himself wrapped up in an urgent matter that kept him occupied for more than an hour. By the time he was free to look for Aramis and Porthos, he fully expected that Athos had returned from the river and was by their side. The Captain had to tamp down his irritation when he discovered he had assumed wrongly. Apparently, Athos was still brooding up by the river, alone, in the coming darkness.

"Athos is not with you?" Treville asked as he approached Aramis and Porthos just to be sure the swordsman hadn't come and gone for some reason.

"With us?" Porthos echoed, puzzled. "Roudon said he was with you being disciplined. Captain, Athos didn't…"

"Then, where is he?" Aramis queried as he rose from his seat talking over Porthos. Concern colored his voice and his features. Porthos climbed to his feet, too, and both musketeers faced their Captain awaiting his reply.

"I was with him, over an hour ago, by the river. We were talking. He is...," Treville paused for a moment searching for the right words.

Treville wasn't one to share the inner thoughts of someone with others, but Porthos and Aramis weren't 'others'. They and Athos were becoming a band of brothers, even though they were not related by blood. Whatever scrapes they got into he'd been right when he'd thought form them into a team. They had become each other's confidante, confessor, savior and rock and because of that growing bond, he offered up the truth.

"Though it may seem hard to believe, since he has taken to the life of a musketeer with more ease than some professional soldiers, Athos was, until recently, a civilian. What occurred here today, this battle, Athos has never experienced that, not in real life," Treville finished.

A look passed between Porthos and Aramis, one of those silent communications that seemed the norm between the three musketeers, but made the hair on the back of a stranger's neck standup because of its eerie accuracy.

Nodding his head slowly, Porthos was the first to speak. "Never thought of that. Sometimes it's easy to forget he hasn't always been part of the regiment." His companions nodded in agreement. "Athos and I went through a lot together...at Dieppe. But your first real battle," Porthos shook his head knowingly, "Oi, that's different."

Silence settled over the trio as each man thought back upon their own experiences. Treville wasn't even sure he remembered his first battle, it was so long ago. Growing up in a military family, he had actually seen conflicts before he was sent off to boarding school in Paris to further his formal military education. His father had put a sword in his hand almost from the day he could walk, he mused as he thought on his unusual childhood. And yet, Treville knew for all his years of experience, Athos, who was many years his junior, was the superior swordsman. The young man had a God-given innate talent. But just because Athos was an outstanding swordsman, didn't mean he was a seasoned soldier; the young man still had much to learn, like how to deal with battle trauma.

Aramis was thinking of a battle too, but not his first, rather it was Savoy that came to mind and the trauma he had undergone because of it. His eyes went flat brown and his breathing became somewhat ragged as a rush of images of blood, bodies and snow overcame his mind. The marksman's muscles tensed, which did not go unnoticed by Porthos, who placed a comforting hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"Don't go there, Aramis," Porthos gently admonished his friend, fully aware of how Savoy had nearly broken his brother.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Aramis smiled slightly. "Mon ami, that is actually where I need to go. Athos helped me through that dark period by unintentionally giving me something else to focus on. I'm not sure if he realized it..."

"He did," Porthos interjected swiftly.

"...or appreciated my efforts..."

"He didn't," Porthos confirmed.

"...but I can use that horrible experience for good. To help Athos get past his own battle shock."

"He isn't gonna like it," Porthos predicted with deadly precision, which caused Treville to snort. Porthos had hit the nail right on the head. Athos didn't accept any sort of help towards his health or well-being with good graces.

"He'll concede to my natural charm as always," Aramis declared airily with a slight toss of his dark, wavy hair. "Everyone does."

Now it was Porthos' turn to snort. "No one concedes, not willingly. You just wear them down to the point that doing what you want is just easier."

"Yes. Charm." Aramis gave Porthos one of his charismatic smiles. Porthos shook his head in mock disgust even though he was grinning too. That is what he loved about his brother. His natural optimism.

"Captain, if it is alright with you, I think we'll camp by the river tonight. Away from the main encampment," Aramis said as he turned to look at the Captain.

Treville considered Aramis' request for a few moments. The enemy had been routed, they were on French soil, and the three of them could easily handle any issues that might arise. "Granted. Consider yourself the rear guard. Ensure no one crosses the river and sneaks up on the camp."

"Thank you. This will be better for Athos," Aramis declared appreciatively.

That was exactly why the Captain had agreed to the medic-musketeer's request, because Athos was an extremely private person. The swordsman took tremendous measures always to appear calm, dispassionate and in-control; outsiders often took his demeanor as aloof and uncaring. Only a very few people actually understood it was simply window dressing for someone who often felt too much. Aramis and Porthos, and to some degree Treville, had made inroads into the mystery that was Athos. Treville knew if Athos was dragged back to the camp, around the rest of the musketeers, he would do everything to appear normal, to the detriment of his own well-being. The Captain was hoping the private time he was granting the three of them would aid in Athos getting grounded again.

With a satisfied nod, more to himself than anyone else, Treville turned to leave, instructing, "I expect you at muster in the morning."

"Of course, Captain," Aramis replied with his easy charm. "We'll be there."


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

After the Captain left, the two musketeers separated to gather the supplies they would need, with Aramis getting food and medicine, while Porthos got some simple camping gear and their bedrolls. With Porthos looking like a pack mule under the bedrolls and Aramis a woman on her way home from market laden with baskets, the two men made their way to the river.

"Did something happen on the battlefield today," Aramis asked as they trudged under their loads towards the river.

"Whaddya mean?"

"Lieutenant Roudon said, earlier, that the Captain was discipling Athos. And then you started to ask the Captain…"

Porthos interjected. "It was just Roudon being a bastard like always. He gave a command that Athos didn't like, felt was dangerous…"

This time Aramis interrupted, "To you. Roudon does that, disrespects you, treats you like…"

"And Athos overrode it and got the others to follow him, not Roudon."

"That sounds like Roudon, and Athos. We're you in danger?" Aramis asked and Porthos' silence told him all he needed to know. "You were. Athos was right."

"But he's made an enemy of Roudon. And that man won't forget," Porthos said ominously.

They arrived at the river, then headed upstream to where the Captain had said he left Athos. The conversation about Roudon was shelved for the time being. They found their third, sitting on the ground, back against a grey speckled rock, facing the river where the last rays of sunlight were tinting the water a pinkish gold.

Porthos exchanged a worried glance with Aramis when Athos didn't react to their arrival. In the months they had worked together, the swordsman had proven he had good hearing, was a light sleeper and was very alert. No one snuck up on him, unless he was deep in his cups, and even then, it was a challenge. Since they didn't see how he could be drunk, Treville had chosen not to share that fact, a sense of foreboding struck their souls.

Getting no reaction when he called his friend's name, Aramis hurried over to the sitting man's side and confirmed what they feared; he was unconscious. Two long, elegant fingers reached out to check the swordsman's pulse and Aramis sighed with relief when he felt it was steady and strong. An even better sign was that Athos' eyelids began to flutter as he started to rouse.

"It's me, Athos. Aramis," the medic soothingly said as he knelt in the grass next to him.

Green eyes blinked a few times before opening to stare up at him, unhooded for once and displaying pain and confusion. Seeking to gain information that he didn't think his patient was alert enough to supply, Aramis let his fingers brush aside Athos' unruly brown hair to linger on his forehead, checking for signs of fever. Not quite awake enough to form a coherent sentence, none-the-less Athos sluggishly turned his head away from Aramis' questing fingers, which made Aramis grin.

"Even half-awake you are a recalcitrant patient," Aramis chuckled. "Can you tell me where you are hurt?" Aramis' eyes drifted, searching across Athos' body.

"Hurt? Sleeping," the swordsman slurred as he let his heavy eyelids drift shut again.

Porthos dropped the gear he was carrying some ways back from the river's edge before he walked over to join Aramis, who was kneeling next to Athos. Aramis, who had good olfactory senses, wrinkled his nose as he leaned even closer to his patient. "Where is the tavern I missed on the way to the river?"

"He's drunk?" Porthos questioned, his voice a mixture of disgust and concern as he looked at Athos, who was slumped against the rock.

Sitting back on his haunches, Aramis studied the inert form in front of him. "Drunk? Not by his standards. But having imbibed, most definitely."

Porthos shook his head sadly. "On a hot day like this? On an empty stomach? Pretty stupid."

Though he didn't open his closed lids, Athos murmured his concurrence with the tail end of Porthos' previous statement.

"I'd say that was a lesson learned, albeit the hard way," Aramis remarked with a small grin as he rose to his feet. "Do you need assistance removing your garments, Athos?"

Again, there was a muttered reply, which could have been anything from 'thank you,' to 'go stuff yourself,' the latter being more likely. However, 'no' wasn't the right answer, no matter in what form it had been issued, so Aramis gave a little nod to Porthos who reached down and hauled the stubborn man to his feet. Athos gasped in surprise as his eyes flew open to stare up at his brother's grinning face.

"Slung over my shoulder like an escaped wench or walkin' on your own?" Porthos politely inquired of the surprised man.

The swordsman didn't verbally reply, but rather pulled himself free from Porthos' grip, discovered he wasn't quite capable of standing on his own and careened into Aramis, who steadied him by slipping an arm under his shoulder.

"It seems our brother would rather be escorted by me to the ball." As Athos regained his balance, he sought to pull free from Aramis too, which earned him a scolding and a tighter grip around his torso. "I'd think this through again, unless you really do want to look like a sack of grain slung over Porthos' shoulder. It isn't far to the bank. Surely you can stand my company for that long." Again, there was a mumbling that Aramis chose to ignore as he urged Athos towards the river's edge.

Once there, Aramis, with much protest on Athos' part, undid the few remaining buttons on the swordsman's black leather jacket and Porthos drew it off from behind.

"Ah, Aramis. I don't pretend to be any judge of styles, but isn't that a peculiar spot for a hole?" Porthos held the jacket aloft and Aramis walked over so he could see the rent in the left side.

Two sets of brown eyes rotated back to where Athos stood, swaying slightly. "I'll bet," Aramis began as he moved closer to the swordsman, "we'll find a matching slit in that black shirt he has on. And, I'd even go one further to speculate that there is a matching rent in that lily white, though somewhat fur-covered, hide." Aramis reached out and found the hole in Athos' shirt.

Steam practically rose from Porthos' collar as he advanced on Athos. "You're hurt? When? From the battle? And you've been hiding it? Haven't you learned anything!" Porthos was inches from Athos, his face contorted with anger.

Athos winced as he shrugged. "I…I do not know." Exhaustion washed over him and he hung his head and uncharacteristically leaned on Aramis for support. "It was… there was…" Wearily he closed his eyes. "Not like the books," he mumbled wearily.

Like a sleepy child, Aramis gently led the battle-worn man to a flat boulder on the river's edge and continued to undress him, removing the shirt to examine the sword wound. Athos didn't protest at all and even tried to be helpful, though Aramis gently brushed the clumsy fingers aside.

"I got this, Athos. Just try to relax while I wash off some of this blood."

Porthos immediately fetched the clean rags he knew Aramis had packed, brought them to the river's edge, soaked them in the clear, cool water and handed them to the medic. His anger, which had been driven by fear for his brother, evaporated.

"You know better than to hide a wound, Athos," Porthos admonished again, but with no bite to the words. "And you never should have been hauling those dead bodies around. You should have told me."

The swordsman kept his head bowed and sincerely said, "I didn't want to appear unwilling to do my duty. I apologize."

Anger flared back in Porthos' voice as he watched the ugly gash emerge under Aramis gentle scrubbing. "Damn it, Athos. I don't want your apology. I want your word you won't do this again. That is not a mere pin prick."

After the 6-inch slice was washed clean and exposed, Aramis began to examine it. The swordsman hadn't opened his eyes since Aramis had begun and he was starting to slump over, so the medic indicated for Porthos to support him.

"Ya know, Aramis. Some of those Spanish bodies we hauled off didn't look none too healthy. And he was handling them with that open wound." Porthos' voice underlined his concern.

Aramis, who had cleaned off the area, was staring at the wound, considering his next action. The wound itself was not as bad as it first looked; it was long, but not really deep. He didn't think it needed stitches to close it. It would be sore, but not too troublesome to the musketeer. However, if what Porthos said was indeed correct, it would be a good precaution to scrub Athos down from stem to stern.

"Porthos, strip, then strip him. We're all going to have a Saturday night bath." With that, Aramis began removing his own clothes until he was bare-naked. Once the other two were in a similar state, Aramis and Porthos gently maneuvered Athos into the river. Aramis found a rock in the deeper part of the stream where he could seat Athos and the water rose up to the man's shoulders. Athos bit his lip when the water hit his wound, but soon found the cool liquid actually took some of the sting away and some of the heat out of his body. Athos didn't, or more likely couldn't, find the energy to resist Aramis' rather intimate scrubbing, nor fight Porthos, who was supporting his jelly-like limbs. The medic even scrubbed the swordsman's hair so by the time he was hauled from the river, because he could barely walk from exhaustion, he was squeaky clean.

He revived somewhat on the solid land and after Aramis had bandaged his torso, he insisted upon getting dressed without any aid. Smartly, Porthos had thought to bring Athos' saddlebags so the musketeer had access to clean clothes. While Athos went through his heroics trying to dress without aid, the others made dinner. By the time the simple meal was ready, Athos was so fatigued from dressing, he simply dropped down on his bedroll and drifted off to sleep. Aramis silently shook his head when Porthos' quirked an eyebrow, inquiring whether he should wake the sleeping man to eat. And so, the two musketeers ate their own second dinner in silence.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

The night was mostly uneventful with Athos restless at times, though after a few minutes he would settle once more. To the musketeers' relief, Athos did not have any terrifying nightmares for a change. The morning found his attitude back to its normal, stoic, brooding, closed-off self. Attempts to engage him in conversation were met with single word answers, nods or silence and soon the other two gave up. They headed back to camp with Porthos and Aramis bantering over a wide range of subjects and Athos dourly refusing to be drawn in, though occasionally the corner of this mouth would twitch at his brothers' antics.

Their arrival at the camp coincided with the serving of breakfast, much to Porthos' delight, and he immediately found a place to dump their possessions so he could join the line of soldiers waiting for their rations. Aramis added his own load to the untidy pile on ground, shrugging at Athos.

"Food is important to Porthos. And as a good soldier, you never let a meal go by because you have no idea how long it will be to the next one."

Athos gave Aramis a sideways glance before letting his eyes wander back to the line of hungry men.

"Come. Drop your stuff and let's go celebrate the gloriousness of another day from our Lord by breaking our fast."

Athos carefully placed his bundle on the ground next to the untidy pile and allowed Aramis to sling an arm over his shoulder and lead him towards the line. The Comte turned musketeer was getting used to his brethren's tactile exuberance, arms slung over shoulders, slaps on the back, hands cupped with care on the back of the neck, things that had made him cringe and move away when he first became part of their merry little band. Now, he might give a small flinch and an exasperated eye roll, but he had generally learned to endure their intrusions on his person.

His environment growing up as a child was in many aspects rather cold and indifferent. Rules were to be obeyed, commands promptly responded too, emotions kept in tight control, displays of affection were frowned upon and detached order was expected at all times. Perhaps it was one of the reasons he fell so hard for Anne when he met her. While she could display a cool facade, she was also very warm and embracing with him. Her ready smile, her spontaneous touch, which often strayed into forbidden zones, sent shivers down his spine. She drew smiles and laughter out of him as no one had done before and he quickly became besotted with her.

And look how that turned out, he reminded himself before shrugging off Aramis' arm with a touch of anger. His displeasure was not at Aramis, but at the memory of his wife. Perhaps his parents had been right with their cool, aloof manner. Love was a fairy tale.

Aramis sensed the shift in Athos' mood and took no offense as his arm dropped back to his side. He took no umbrage, understanding to some degree the complicated man walking at this side. The marksman knew he was pushing Athos past his comfort zone every time he made a physical gesture towards the man, whether a hearty slap on the back or a gentle pat on the shoulder. But he felt it was good for the swordsman to be pushed and he was slowly seeing Athos accepting the gestures and dropping his guard a little, at least around him and Porthos, and Aramis felt that was a positive sign. They had to trust each other to be an effective team and, slowly, that trust was building in the scarred Athos.

After the three men had collected their food, they moved off to one side to sit and eat out of the way. Those that had finished their repast were being put to work breaking down the camp and loading the wagons. Aramis wolfed through his food even faster than Porthos as he was anxious to go help with the care and transportation of the wounded men he had doctored yesterday. Athos ate at his normal, steady rate, treating this as a necessary chore to get over with and move on. Porthos ate with his usual full concentration and of course went back for seconds.

After the two musketeers turned in their bowls, Lieutenant Allade, came up to them and sent them off to help load the remaining wagons with the gear the musketeers had brought to the battle. Captain Treville moved about the camp in his usual methodical manner ensuring all was getting done and soon the regiment was ready to depart. The wagons were loaded, the men were mounted and Treville gave the hand signal to move out.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

They rode across the countryside heading for a road that would make passage easier for the wagons. The wounded from both armies were very happy when the wagon wheels finally hit the road for, as bumpy as it was, it was better than jolting over the grass. The regiment had been on the road for less than a league when a lone rider was spotted approaching from the north. The forward scouts brought the caravan to a halt while Treville moved to the front with a few of his best marksmen. The entire regiment went on alert, the battle-worn soldiers immediately forgetting their aches and pains as they prepared to meet what might be their next advisory. A collective sigh of relief spread through the troops when they realized that the rider was wearing the King's livery and indeed was from the palace.

The Inseparables had moved to the front when the rider had been spotted, pulling out their weapons and training them on the man. When the danger was past, they put away their muskets and Aramis and Porthos began to speculate about what news the messenger had brought. Athos, as usual, remained quiet though he was studying the Captain's body language and, after a few minutes, had come to the conclusion that the news was not bad.

Captain Treville sat quietly on his horse scanning the scroll with which he had been presented while he listened to the messenger reiterate the King's command. His Majesty had purchased a set of four matching carriage horses for the Queen's birthday and wanted his musketeers to pick them up and deliver them to the palace for fear of thieves making off with his gift. With an exasperated sigh, Treville let the scroll roll back up before tucking it away in his bags. The best fighters in the realm were being used as a delivery service. Still, he supposed it did make some sort of sense, since four matching horses of quality might be a tempting target for bandits.

The Captain invited the messenger to join them, for there was safety in numbers when traveling, but the man politely refused as he had more messages to deliver. With a nod, the man was off on his swift horse and soon disappeared over the horizon. Turning his own stallion around, the Captain rode slowly back towards his troops before coming to a stop in front of the semi-circle of soldiers.

Standing in his stirrups, he addressed his regiment of musketeers. "The King has purchased special carriage horses for the Queen from an estate less than two day's ride from here. I have been instructed to send a small contingent of musketeers to fetch the horses and ferry them safely back to the palace."

Sitting back in the saddle, he let his calculating blue eyes sweep his men, weighing whom to send on this mission. To his right, he saw Aramis, Athos and Porthos clustered together and decided they would form the core of the group and he would add three more, Francis, Pierre and Roudon. Six men, four horses. Four musketeers would lead the horses while the other two served as the front and rear guards.

Lieutenant Roudon would lead the group. Treville, contrary to what Athos might think, knew the veteran had a blind spot. He was old school, first son of a Comte awaiting his father's death. Roudon had never made it a secret he didn't like the 'type' of people Treville recruited to be musketeers, such as Porthos. He felt them unfit to be in the elite guard of the king. Treville had worked very hard to get the otherwise excellent soldier past his bias, though he was not sure if he had been successful based on some of the things he still heard. It could be that Roudon had simply gotten better at hiding his prejudice.

Roudon had complained to him that Athos hadn't followed orders during the battle, but grew a bit vague when asked to explain why. The Captain had a feeling it had had something to do with Porthos, though neither Roudon nor Athos would confirm his suspicions. So Treville had not investigated the matter any further.

Even if Aramis was the second highest ranking member of the group, to place Aramis in charge might be perceived as an insult or punishment to Roudon, who technically had done nothing that Treville was aware of to warrant such an action. Roudon was senior, good with horses, and he was nobility, something which could be invaluable on this mission. And if he truly had gotten past his biases then there was no reason not to put him in charge. Maybe a low stress, peaceful mission would help ease all tensions. The best way to learn about a person is to spend time with them and this seemed like a good opportunity.

"Lieutenant Roudon shall lead this mission to Comte Vergy's estate, which is where these carriage horses are located," Treville announced with confidence and assurance as if there had never been any doubt in his mind.

Treville thought he saw a slight flash of recognition in Athos' eyes upon hearing the Comte's name. However, he wasn't sure if it was just his imagination since he knew of Athos' heritage. A second later the cool green eyes were staring at him with polite interest, though nothing more. What both the Captain and Athos missed, however, was the look of disgust that passed between Aramis and Porthos. Neither man liked Roudon and they weren't anxious to be on a mission under his command.

"I know of this Comte," Roudon declared in his deep bass. "He breeds the best horseflesh in all of France. The King must have paid a pretty penny for a set of matching carriage horses for the Queen." The seasoned veteran shook his head. "Not many can afford the prices Comte Vergy demands.

Roudon wasn't the only one who knew the Comte Vergy, Jourdain to his friends, such as the Comte de la Fére. And Roudon was right, the man did breed the best horseflesh in France, Roger being one of them. Unconsciously, Athos' hand strayed to scratch Roger's neck underneath his silky black mane. The horse's appreciative grunt made the swordsman realize what he had done and he immediately stopped his ministrations, much to the stallion's dismay who let out a little snort to voice his disappointment.

Athos' father had been a long-time friend of the senior Comte Vergy and he had purchased many a fine animal from the nobleman, who had a keen interest in horse breeding. Twice a year, the elder de la Fére would journey to Comte Vergy's estate to inspect his stock and often purchase a new horse or two to add to his own stable. The two men became more than business acquaintances; they also became friends over the years and they shared the same views on many subjects. When Olivier was five, his father allowed him to come along on one of the visits. Comte Vergy had a son of his own, Jourdain, who was Olivier's age and the two became long distance friends, one of the few friends Olivier had growing up.

Jourdain also had a somewhat lonely childhood as none of his siblings had survived, each turning blue and dying soon after birth. After their fourth child perished, the Vergys took it as a sign from God that they were to have only one child, so they instead threw themselves into raising their horses. Jourdain would often joke that his parents spent more time in the barn with the horses than with him and it wasn't far from the truth. Both of his parents were very active in the raising and training of their stock and Jourdain became an astute judge of horseflesh, like his parents, at a very young age. Until he met Olivier, it didn't seem odd to him that his best friends had four feet, rather than two.

Perhaps that is why when Olivier, a lonely child himself, first came to visit the estate the two boys hit it off. Intuitively, they recognized something similar in themselves and that formed the bond of friendship. The senior Comte de la Fére was delighted that his eldest made a friend within the proper station of life. Too often he found his heir being overly friendly with the village children, something that he discouraged with both lecture and belt.

A few years later, when Olivier was invited to stay for a few weeks over the summer at the farm with Jourdain, the Comte de la Fére heartily approved the opportunity. He highly respected Comte Vergy and felt his influence on his somewhat rebellious son would be perfect. Comte Vergy was old school nobility, serious about his heritage and his responsibilities and he was raising his son in a no-nonsense manner with strict discipline. Jourdain was regal, polite and carried himself, even at a young age, with a sense of dignity that spoke of old school values, traits that the Comte de la Fére wished would rub off on Olivier.

As the boys got to know each other better, they began to share confidences and learned they shared the same viewpoint on many subjects. Both were well-educated and had spent time in Paris as part of their studies. They realized that the France of their fathers' generation, where the power of the nobility was great, was beginning to change. The favor of the King was becoming increasingly important and many of the nobility were flocking to Paris to see and be seen. Neither of their fathers was willing to see the alterations that were taking place in the relationship between the crown and the nobility. They faithfully served their King, but from afar, not spending time in his Majesty's presence currying favor.

The boys also realized power was subtly starting to shift and that the nobility, who once ruled with an iron fist, might do better to think more of the people in the villages associated with their estates as partners rather than indentured servants. But this was a radical idea that they only discussed quietly between themselves. Once, when Olivier mentioned such a concept to his father, he thought the man was going to have a seizure and the accompanying lecture was both long and painful. There was going to be no shifting in the old guard and as Olivier and Jourdain grew older and wiser in the world of politics, they realized change came in two ways, brutal and fast, or slow and painful. It just depended on which side of the equation you were on.

It was Jourdain who taught Olivier that subterfuge had its place, even in the life of noble, a lesson Olivier learned well and employed successfully throughout his life. Jourdain taught Olivier that the world was not black and white, but full of grey which could be used to one's advantage. A person could be honorable, regal and noble and still be devious and brutal when the situation called for it. It was a strange concept that over the years, Olivier came to understand, and he used it effectively in his own life as a musketeer.

To many, Athos, the adult alter ego of Olivier, appeared to be the model of forthrightness and yet under that chivalrous shell lurked a man who could do whatever it took to accomplish a mission. Athos was all for doing the right thing, until he wasn't, a dichotomy that often-stumped friends and strangers alike. It was a trait that served him well, though occasionally got him in hot water with his Captain as well as others.

These memories tumbled across Athos' mind when he heard the Captain speak the Comte Vergy's name and he prayed his face was better schooled than his jumbled thoughts. Roudon had begun to speak and Athos forced his mind from the past to the present.

"…and we leave within the hour," Roudon finished.

The others began to disperse, all but Athos, who had no idea what were Roudon's instructions.

"Did you not understand my orders?" Roudon moved his horse closer to Athos' temperamental stallion, who lashed out a hoof at the approaching pair. Roudon was forced to pull up his mount to avoid getting struck. "Control your horse, musketeer."

Athos gave Roger a quick check, letting him know his actions were not acceptable. "Sorry," he apologized quietly to his leader. "He doesn't like to be crowded."

"He is a horse and I don't care what he likes. You will control that animal at all times. And you need to stop wool-gathering. When I issue an order to you, I expect it to be obeyed," Roudon demanded in a patronizing manner.

Athos, though not pleased, gave a quick nod of acknowledgment. Captain Treville had made Lieutenant Roudon the leader of this mission and, as a musketeer, he was expected to follow the orders of his leader. This was his chance to prove to Captain Treville he could follow the orders of others. He vowed not to display any sign of insubordination on this trip.

"Go get some extra ammunition from the supply wagon. And don't be all day about it," Roudon repeated his command.

"Yes, Sir," Wheeling his horse around, Athos trotted Roger towards the munitions wagon, which was near the rear of the column.

Captain Treville sat silently wondering once more if he had made a mistake putting Lieutenant Roudon in command. Technically, Athos had not been listening, so Roudon was within his rights to correct him. But his attitude towards Athos seemed somewhat harsh.

"Men follow their leader for many reasons," Treville casually remarked to Roudon after all the others had ridden off to get the required supplies. "But the best reason is from respect and trust. It takes time to build those confidences in your men. Be fair, clear and reasonable and you will gain both their respect and trust."

"That may be so with people like ourselves, Captain, but Aramis, Porthos and Athos lack discipline, a common fault of their kind. A firm hand will keep them in line. Strict order is the key to a successful mission."

Treville sighed inwardly at his Lieutenant's biases. Roudon was one of his earliest recruits, though he really had no choice when it came to taking him. The nobleman had been thrust upon him by the Cardinal when the musketeers were being organized. Treville had often wondered if it was because the Cardinal didn't want the man as part of his Red Guards. It had been strongly suggested that Roudon would make an excellent Lieutenant. But when Treville began expanding the musketeers to include men who weren't of the nobility, issues began to crop up with Lieutenant Roudon's leadership style.

"Take time to get to know these men," Treville suggested to his Lieutenant. "Aramis is the best marksman in the regiment, Porthos the best hand-to-hand fighter and Athos is second to none with a sword. Their talents will serve you well."

"Perhaps, if they can understand their place," Roudon declared in a tone that sounded doubtful as he turned his horse away to move to the location he had told the rest of them to meet him. "Don't worry, Captain, I will successfully complete this mission."

Treville sat for a few moments on his horse watching the men in the distance regroup with the supplies. They divided up the items amongst themselves before riding down the road. When they were out of sight, the Captain turned his own mount around and rejoined his troops heading back to Paris. Not usually one to second guess himself, he couldn't shake the feeling he'd made a mistake.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

They rode steadily throughout the day, a group yet not a group. Anyone looking at the unit could plainly see the division of the riders, three and three. The Inseparables, as they were already becoming known, where relegated to riding behind Roudon and the other two musketeers, rather like servants. Aramis, the peacemaker, tried at their midday break to integrate the two sides as they ate, but his attempts at being friendly were rebuffed by Pierre, Francis, and especially Roudon.

That night, when they stopped to camp, it became abundantly clear in both words and actions that Lieutenant Roudon didn't care for the fact that Captain Treville had saddled him with the trio. He assigned Porthos to all the manual labor tasks, fetching the fire wood, hauling the water, and perhaps most menial, clearing the ground of rocks and other objects where they would lay out their bedrolls. The tone and words Roudon used to speak to Porthos were those of a master ordering about his servant.

Porthos, not unaccustomed to being treated like a servant, took the high road and had not let Roudon's words and actions upset him. He knew that Captain Treville thought highly of him, and had he been here, Porthos was sure the Captain would have frowned upon Roudon's behavior. Porthos also knew if he argued with Roudon, a wider division would occur within the group and that would not be good for the mission. So, he didn't let Roudon get under his skin, while making a vow to request to Captain Treville, upon their return, that he never be partnered with the man again.

Aramis made a few diplomatic remarks to Roudon about his unfair treatment in regards to Porthos, but he was rebuffed. When Aramis began to become more insistent that their Lieutenant modify his behavior, the streetfighter pulled him aside and told him to stop. After a brief argument, Aramis acquiesced to Porthos' wishes, understanding that a group divided, should they come into a dangerous situation, would only increase the peril. For the love of his brother, his Captain and the regiment, Aramis restrained himself and tried to ignore Roudon's behavior. He too, once back in the garrison, would be talking to their good Captain about Roudon. Something had to be done about the man.

It was Athos who took a more aggressive route with Roudon. Athos had formed an unshakeable respect for Porthos during their harrowing experience in Dieppe and he would allow no man to undervalue his brother. What Athos really wanted to do was pull rank on Roudon and put him in his place. However, that would require the swordsman to admit to who he really was, something he could not bring himself to do, not even to Aramis or Porthos. So, instead, Athos took every chance he got to argue, misinterpret and flat out ignore orders, while maintaining his aloof mannerism, which he knew irritated Roudon.

While they were caring for their horses, Athos managed to get Roger tethered near Roudon's horse, which should have raised a red flag, for all the musketeers knew Roger, like his owner, was not fond of being part of a group. Roudon was unhitching his saddlebags from his gelding, standing with his back to Roger, when suddenly the black stallion moved nimbly sideways, crushing Roudon against the side of his own horse. The man let out a scream, which was choked off as he was further crushed between the two pieces of horseflesh. He crumbled to the ground when the two horses finally moved apart, his breath coming in strangled gasps.

Aramis immediately came running to see if the man had been injured. However, Roudon, once he caught his breath, made it abundantly clear he didn't want Aramis anywhere near his person. So, Aramis stopped trying to assist and stepped back.

Roudon, shaking with fury, rose to his feet and marched over to where Athos stood holding his horse's bridle. "You are uninjured?" Athos asked in a cool, but polite, detached tone.

"No thanks to that ill-mannered beast of yours. He is a danger to us all. I have heard the stable lads complaining about him going after them. And I know of the time when Carmin borrowed him because his own horse was lame, that devil did everything in his power to unseat him."

"I believe Roger did prevail… in unseating him. He is not fond of strangers, especially nobility with an over-inflated sense of self-worth." Athos said in that infuriating Comte tone he had perfected over the years. And though they had been speaking of Carmin, it was also quite clear Athos meant Roudon too.

Roudon stalked closer to Athos, though he still kept a good distance between him and Roger. "That sounds like impertinence, which is the same as insubordination in my book. What are you implying, musketeer?"

Athos stared at him calmly. "I am implying nothing. I am stating you are no better than any of us here, no matter what you think to the contrary."

A mocking laugh escaped Roudon's lips. "No better? I'm the certainly better. I am the son of the Comte de Champ. My family has been in service to the King for centuries."

"I believe the de Champ lineage is Noblesse graduelle, meaning your family has been serving the King for closer to twenty years, not centuries," Athos calmly countered.

Even in the dimming light, it was clear to see that Roudon's face was scarlet with rage. "How would the likes of you, a common drunk, know anything about my family's lineage?" the angry man sputtered.

With an indifferent shrug, Athos replied, "I heard it somewhere."

"Where would the likes of you hear such a thing? You are some no-name drunken soldier that, for God knows what reason the Captain allowed to join the musketeers."

"Perhaps," Aramis said in a low voice tinged with anger, "the Captain made him a musketeer because he is trustworthy and the best damn swordsman in all of France."

"Trustworthy?" Roudon laughed mockingly. "He can't even be trusted to remain sober. "How many times has he lost himself in drink? Failed to show up at muster or even worse, showed up drunk or hungover. I hardly call that trustworthy. He should be drummed out of the regiment for his insubordinate nature."

Aramis started to protest, but Roudon spoke over him. "And you. Why would I listen to anything you have to say? Again, a man of no rank that the Captain lets sully the reputation of the musketeers. A man who spends more time sleeping with the women of the court than protecting them. A man who professes to have a great faith in God yet sleeps with married women and deflowers poor unsuspecting maidens. Perhaps you need to read your bible more carefully to see what God thinks of libertines! Your only saving grace is you do tend to follow the orders you are given unlike Athos."

Aramis wasn't so sure that was true. He just had a little more experience than Athos at hiding his indiscretions.

It was Porthos' turn to step up and defend his brother. "Aramis is the best marksman in the regiment. The Captain chose him and Athos for what they can do not what family they were born into."

"Says the gutter rat," the Lieutenant sneered. "What would you know of family? No one is blind to your mixed heritage. You, most of all, have no right to be part of an elite group of soldiers. You are nothing more than an uneducated, low-life street-rat. Those two," Roudon waved a negligent hand at Athos and Aramis, "at least bring a skill to the regiment. But you, you bring nothing but your sullied heritage. You belong in the fields, not in the Palace."

Athos took a step forward and using his powerful right hook, knocked the Lieutenant to the ground. Somewhat in shock by Athos' unorthodox behavior, Aramis and Porthos were slow to react, giving Athos the opportunity to reach down, grab Roudon by his jacket, haul him upwards and hit him in the face again. Athos got in a third blow, but before he could land a fourth punch, Aramis and Porthos grabbed Athos' arms and hauled him away from Roudon.

Pierre and Francis quickly sprang to Roudon's side and aided the dazed man in sitting up.

Aramis grabbed Athos' chin and forced the roiled musketeer to look at him. "Athos! What the hell are you doing?"

"Those things he said were wrong," Athos muttered defiantly.

"Of course, they were. But you just struck a superior officer, not once, but multiple times. Over words, Athos. Words that have no power over us. Words that hurt but can be ignored. But you, my friend, have just handed Roudon everything he needs to have you thrown out of the musketeers," Aramis scolded his friend.

"Treville won't believe it," Porthos said coming to Athos defense.

"Won't believe what? Athos did strike Roudon, repeatedly. There are five witness not to mention Roudon's face, which I imagine will also show the evidence."

"But what he said…," Athos started to say before Aramis cut him off with a speech one day Athos himself would utter.

"…was cruel, mean, undeserved, and narrow-minded, but not illegal. It was one man giving his opinion and it wasn't sedition. What you did, striking a superior officer? That is illegal and punishable in whatever manner Treville finds fit, to include being kicked out of the musketeers," Aramis concluded which a note of distress in his voice.

Porthos began to argue, but surprisingly it was Athos cut him off this time. "Aramis is correct. What I did was wrong as well as stupid. I have not made things better for either of you. Your best move now is to distance yourself from both this action and me lest someone incorrectly places blame on you too."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a silent glance, then Aramis actually partially smiled. "Oh Athos. How quickly you lose faith and trust in us. How swiftly you are ready to throw us aside to nobly take all the blame. When will you learn our friendship doesn't work that way?"

"Yeah, you didn't do anything we haven't wanted to do for months," Porthos added with a grin of his own.

"Only you were stupid enough to do it," Aramis scolded.

"With witnesses" Porthos chimed in.

"Not one of your better moves. However, we won't be abandoning you now or ever so get that right out of your mind. We will fight this together, as a team. You know they are starting to call us the 'The Inseparables'. Flattering I suppose."

Porthos gave Aramis an unsure glance. "Or creepy."

Athos looked at his two friends and the disbelief in his eyes mirrored the disbelief on Pierre, Francis and Roudon's faces. Roudon, who had risen to his feet with the help of the other two musketeers, took a step towards the trio.

"He strikes me and you two make light of it?" Roudon turned his anger on Aramis and Porthos. "We'll see if you are still laughing when I demand Captain Treville remove him from the regiment and place him in prison for assault on an officer."

Schooling his face, Aramis tried to calm down their irate Lieutenant. "What happened was nothing to joke about."

"Note his words, Pierre, Francis. I shall need you as witnesses when I confront the Captain. Even his so-called friends agree his behavior was out of line."

"Now wait a minute…"

Roudon closed the few feet between him and Aramis, standing face to face. "Do you not agree that striking an officer is insubordination?"

"I suppose it could be perceived that way, but…"

"And did not that man, Athos, just strike me, not once, but three times, not in a manner to defend himself but in a manner to cause me harm?" Roudon continued. "Did I strike him first?"

"No, but…"

"And there you have it," Roudon declared as he turned around and walked back over to where Pierre and Francis were waiting. "A corroborated story. I don't suppose, Athos," he asked as he rotated back to face the swordsman who was standing behind Aramis with Porthos' hand still gripping his arm just in case, "you'd like to confess to your crimes, here and now?"

Glaring at Roudon, Athos started to take a step forward. But Porthos' restraining hand and his lowly muttered 'no' halted the swordsman. However, the final act was still to be played.

Roudon didn't realize how close he was standing to Roger when he waved his arms and raised his voice declaring, "Finally, we will make progress cleansing the musketeers of the taints that have been allowed to creep in. After this, I am sure the Captain will realize the errors of his ways. He was foolish letting commoners into the ranks and now he will have to rectify that mistake." He looked pointedly at Aramis and Porthos. "Soon we will be the King's noble fighting force that we always were meant to be."

Roger, not liking the commotion and the sound of Roudon's raised voice, took that unfortunate moment to reach out and try to nip Roudon. The horse obviously felt the Lieutenant had strayed too close once more. It was only a warning, so teeth and flesh didn't meet, but it startled the already upset Roudon, who jumped backwards, stumbled and fell to the ground once more. Pierre and Francis immediately ran to his side and assisted him back onto his feet.

"It is a wonder Captain Treville allows such an animal in his stable. He is a danger to us all! Mark my words, I shall recommend, no insist, to the Captain upon our return that he be destroyed!"

Athos twisted free from Porthos' grasp, ran to his horse and pulled the stallion's head close to his chest as the beast was giving indications he might try once again to cause mischief.

"Captain Treville put me in charge. I'll not have any more disobedience from any of you," his eyes raked the Inseparables. "There are many of us, nobility, in the musketeers who feel our ranks have been sullied by the likes of you and your kind. I know Pierre and Francis feel the same as I. I believe that if we were to petition the King, through our families, his Majesty might see Treville's policies of letting the low-born into the ranks of his esteemed musketeers as a poor practice. Those protecting a noble King should be noble. Those who are not of noble birth should be dismissed." With that, he marched off back to the main part of camp, with Pierre and Francis in tow.

Quietly, Athos relocated Roger to the far end of the picket line, near Fidget and Flip. Calmly, as if nothing happened, he went back to currying his mount.

"That was unpleasant," Aramis declared lightly as he watched Athos coolly brushing Roger.

"Oi. Did you get the feeling that he," Porthos jerked his head towards the departed Roudon, "doesn't care for us?"

"His attitude is as ignorant as it is wrong. A man's worth is not determined by his lineage," Athos stated with utter conviction.

"Really," Porthos said with a snort. "I don't know where you're from. But here, in France, everything is about rank and privilege, from the backstreets of Paris to the Palace."

Athos finished currying Roger, then walked over to his saddlebags and put away the comb. "I don't disagree that there is an order to our society, right or wrong. But Captain Treville is trying very hard not to mimic that in his musketeers. He is judging a man for himself, not his heritage."

"Be that as it may, what you did here today was not helpful and may very well get you stripped of your commission and thrown in jail, Athos," Aramis concern and anger coloring his voice. "Why did you have to strike him?"

"Yeah. It's not like I haven't heard this all before, for all of my life," Porthos said, though not unkindly.

Athos put Roger back in the line of horses where he could do no more harm before rejoining the other two musketeers. "When we get back to the garrison, I shall ensure that none of this has any impact on you. If I am not dismissed, or imprisoned, I shall leave on my own."

"And how does that not have an impact on us? We are your _friends_," Aramis reminded the reclusive musketeer. Positioning himself between Porthos and Athos, Aramis clapped a hand on both of his friends' shoulders, propelling them forward, "I have faith in our Captain. He will set people like Roudon right, eventually. For now, we simply must be patient, curb our tempers and our fists, and follow the orders of our Lieutenant. In a short time, this will all be a memory."

"Unpleasant memory," Porthos grumbled as they approached the campfire. "But you're right. I have endured worse than the likes of this ass. Thanks for defending me Athos, but a few nasty words aren't worth you losing your place in the regiment nor our friendship."

Athos, as usual, didn't say anything and Aramis, looking at his friend's face saw nothing but an unreadable slate. He hoped Athos' good sense would prevail, for Roudon's mind was made up and nothing the three of them said or did would alter the man's prejudices. As Porthos said, they needed to endure and get this mission successfully completed and then let the Captain handle Roudon.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

The rest of the journey passed with the tension nearly unbearable. Roudon continued to be overbearing and condescending to the Inseparables, especially Porthos. Aramis and Porthos had to bite their tongues to remain silent and both had to take turns keeping Athos from doing something else stupid, which was not an easy feat. But for the sake of Captain Treville, who had put Roudon in charge and their friendship for each other, they persevered and were at least able to stop Athos from inflicting anymore physical damage on the pompous Lieutenant. However, Athos still riddled Roudon with the occasional verbal comment and what only could be described as an insolent attitude.

Finally, they arrived at the paddock-lined road that lead to Comte Vergy's mansion. In the lush green pastures grazed some of the most splendid horseflesh the musketeers had ever laid eyes upon. As they passed by one group of horses, Roger let out a little whinny, almost as if he recognized his birth place and some of his old playmates. Unobtrusively, Athos hushed him not wanting the horse to give away the fact they both knew this place. He hoped when he saw Jourdain, he would be able to do the same and stop the man from indicating he knew him, for Athos wished to remain anonymous.

As much as Athos had come to respect, like, and at some level trust Aramis and Porthos, life had taught him, harshly, it probably wouldn't last. He had been betrayed by too many people and the swordsman didn't want anyone else getting past his carefully crafted barriers. Aramis and Porthos had already proven themselves capable of getting around his defenses from time to time. He wasn't going to give them any more ammunition to aid in them in their efforts. His shameful past had to remain hidden.

The other night he could have put Roudon in his place, for as the Comte de la Fére, he far out ranked the man. As Roudon's family were only recently ennobled, it wouldn't take much time or effort to bring them to their knees. Even amongst the ruling class there were sub-classes. But Athos could not bring himself to do it, not because Roudon didn't deserve it, but because keeping his secrets, secret, was paramount to him. The Comte de la Fére no longer existed and it had to stay that way.

As they advanced towards the house, Roudon in the lead and Athos bringing up the rear, a fit looking man in his late twenties to early thirties stepped out onto the porch to watch them approach. The six musketeers came to a halt in front of the steps of the mansion and everyone dismounted, accept for Athos, who used his height from the back of his horse to catch the eyes of the man on the stoop. Athos gave his old friend Jourdain a sharp head shake when it appeared he might recognize and greet him.

Jourdain wasn't sure if the man on the black stallion was whom he thought, but he received the unspoken signal and quickly adverted his eyes. He thought that the musketeer who had been staring at him looked exactly like his old friend Olivier and his horse Roger. But why would the Comte de la Fére be wearing the uniform of the King's elite guards? Saving the mystery for later, he turned his attention to Roudon and formally stated, "Greetings. I am Comte Jourdain Vergy. You must be the musketeers the King promised to send to collect his horses.".

Roudon, being proper, gave a small bow to acknowledge the Comte's rank. "I am Lieutenant Roudon de Champ, of the King's musketeers. Indeed, we have come to transport your magnificent horses to the King. Perhaps you have heard of my father, the Comte de Champ? He spends much time in court attending the King."

"I'm afraid I don't know your father, but I am sure he gives the King good council," Jourdain returned with a polite smile. "Sorry to say, I don't get off my estate very often. My horses keep me rather busy."

"What of the Comtesse? I am sure she would enjoy Paris. My sister serves in the Palace, a lady-in-waiting for none other than the Queen," Roudon informed in a manner that left no doubt he felt it made him and his family even more prestigious.

A shadow crossed over Jourdain's face. "Sadly, my wife died last year from the fever."

Athos struggled to keep a shocked look off his face. Marie had died? He remembered when the two had wed for he had been at the wedding. The couple had been so excited, so in love, and it was the first time in his life Athos had seen such devotion between a man and a woman. He'd actually left the ceremony a little misty-eyed and wishing he'd find the same someday. When Anne came along, he thought he had found it. Oh, how wrong he'd been about the woman he married.

"I am sorry, Monsieur," Roudon said courteously, though he sounded less than sincere. Changing the subject as a proper gentleman did when the conversation grew awkward, he inquired, "Perhaps you could show us the horses we are to ferry back to Paris."

"Of course. But where are my manners. First, come into the house, have a cool drink, and then I will take you to the barn." He beckoned to a young teen walking across the yard from the stables. "David, take the musketeers' horses to the stable and get them settled for the night."

"No need," Roudon stated firmly. "Aramis, Athos and Porthos will take our mounts to the barn and care for them. We won't be a burden on your staff, Comte."

"It's no trouble…" Jourdain started to say, but Roudon cut him off.

"Even though most of us musketeers hail from nobility, we have willingly chosen to leave our estates to serve our King and country. My men don't expect to be waited upon by your staff, who, I am sure, have chores they need to complete for you, Comte Vergy." Roudon let his eyes sweep across the Inseparables and briefly rest upon Roger, the black stallion, before he continued. "Also, some of these horses are not as well trained as they should be and I would sorely regret if someone on your staff got hurt taking care of them."

Jourdain started to say, "I assure you my grooms are very…"

"It is settled," Roudon cut the Comte off again. To finish his point, the Lieutenant walked over and passed his reins to Aramis then motioned for Francis and Pierre to do the same. The other two musketeers handed their reins to Athos and Porthos, then the three horseless men turned and looked expectantly at their host.

"Yes, well, this way, gentlemen," Jourdain said smoothly, trying to hide the edge of uneasiness in his voice. A perceptive man, he was fairly sure there was something going on with the musketeers which had divided the group. He nodded to David to show the three musketeers holding the six horses to the stables, while he escorted the other three into the house.

When Aramis, Athos, Porthos and David arrived at a magnificent barn, the groom led them inside and the stablemaster, an older man, came out of a small side room to see what was going on in his barn.

"Jacque," David addressed the stablemaster, "These are musketeers. From Paris. Here to collect the team for the King. They will be staying the night. We need six empty stalls in which to put their horses."

When the stable master's eyes lit on Athos and Roger, his eyes narrowed and he started to say, "I know…"

But Athos summarily cut him off. "We will take care of our own mounts, Monsieur and not impose upon your staff. If you'd kindly show us to the empty stalls."

"Musketeers? You are all musketeers?" Jacque questioned again, his eyes lingering on Roger and Athos.

"Yes. Musketeers. The stalls?" Athos demanded politely, but with a sharp edge of insistence to his tone.

Like Jourdain, Jacque understood the message that he was to keep his thoughts to himself. "Of course. Near the end. There are six empty ones."

"Follow me," David instructed as he began to walk down the long dirt aisle between the stalls.

Roger, Athos and the horse he was leading, were the last to pass by Jacque, the stablemaster, who stepped near them. "Begging your pardon, but do I know you? And this horse, he appears to be one of our breeding."

"You must be mistaken. How could a lowly musketeer afford such quality horses as are bred here," Athos replied evasively before briskly moving away.

After they had disappeared down the long dirt aisle, Jacque realized that the man had not answered his question. He was sure that black stallion was one of their breeding. There may have been a lot of horses on this estate over the years, but they were like his children and he remembered each one of them. But if for some reason the musketeer wished to remain incognito, far be it from him to say anything more. He went back to his office to finish up the task he'd been working on before they'd arrived.

At the very end of the stable, David showed them the six empty stalls, evenly divided on either side of the packed dirt aisle way. Three of the stalls had a secondary door that led into a pasture and that is where Athos, Aramis and Porthos placed their three mounts. The other three horses they put on the other side. David offered to assist, but the three musketeers politely thanked him, insisting that they were used to doing this type of work. With some degree of hesitancy, David made his way back up the aisle leaving them alone.

The musketeers got to work unsaddling, grooming, watering and feeding their trusty steeds. As they were finishing up, David came back down to ask if they were ready to join their comrades in the main house for refreshments.

Porthos' eyes lit up at the thought of food. "That sounds good to me."

"And me as well," Aramis chimed in as he gave his mount a final pat before heading back into the aisle.

"Monsieur, are you not joining us?" David inquired when he noted that the third musketeer showed no signs of leaving with them.

Politely, Athos replied, "I will stay here with the horses for a while, to make sure they are…settled."

David ran a critical eye over each of the six stalls. "They appear very well settled to me."

Aramis and Porthos looked at Athos, who glanced away. As it was beginning to get awkward, Aramis breezily announced, "It is the human, not the horses, I wager who is unsettled and needs a little time alone. He gets that way sometimes."

David wasn't sure how to respond to that comment, so he simply nodded and started up the aisle with Porthos in tow. Aramis paused briefly to speak with Athos. "Are you sure you won't come up to the house? You know your absence will no doubt displease our Lieutenant."

"On the contrary, he will probably be relieved the drunk is nowhere near any wine," Athos sarcastically replied.

"Then he'd better check your saddlebags," Aramis joked before becoming serious once more. "Fine. Stay here if you must…"

"I must."

"…but I do want to check that wound and change the bandage, eventually," Aramis told him.

"It is fine."

Aramis laid down the law to his friend. "Still, I will check it later, when you come up to the house. But for now, if you will excuse me, I'm rather hungry and would enjoy some food. If you get hungry, there are still some apples and cheese in my packs. Do help yourself." With that, Aramis hurried up the aisle to catch up with Porthos and David.

With a sigh, Athos walked back into Roger's stall and sank down in the corner on the clean hay. Roger who had shared his stall more than once with his master, ignored him and continued munching on the well-filled manger. Tipping his hat over his forehead, Athos closed his eyes and wondered if he would be able to keep up his subterfuge until they departed from the estate. He had a feeling that Jourdain would be seeking him out at some point and he hoped he would be able to keep that visit a secret from his fellow musketeers.


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

As expected, when Aramis and Porthos were shown into the drawing room where Jourdain and the other three musketeers were settled having a drink, Roudon questioned them about their missing third. As predicted, he expressed his opinion that Athos' absence was a good thing since there was wine present. He made it sound like Athos would imbibe every ounce of alcohol in the room, including that which was in their half-drunk glasses.

Jourdain was surprised by the undertones of revulsion in the Lieutenant's statements. If Athos was truly Olivier, Jourdain had a hard time believing the man was deserving of the picture being painted of him by Roudon. As for the rest of the musketeers in the room, he could see their opinions were spilt. Aramis and Porthos were doing a rather poor job of suppressing the anger flashing in their eyes as Roudon belittled Athos. Yet the other two, Pierre and Francis, clearly sided with Roudon. A house divided against itself cannot stand the horse breeder thought to himself.

From drinks, they moved to a simple dinner and then Jourdain offered to take them to the paddock to see the four matching horses they would be escorting to the palace tomorrow. It was a mild summer night, still light because of the season. As they passed by the barn, he noticed Athos stepping out of the shadows and joining them.

Moving up to the fence, Jourdain whistled and the four gorgeous golden horses with ivory manes and tails ghosted across the grass to where he and the musketeers waited. A murmur of appreciation ran through the musketeers at the unusual color and graceful movement of the animals. Bright of eye. Coats of gold. Flowing, creamy manes and tails. They were perfect and looked like Greek statues when they stopped.

"Two geldings. Two mares," Jourdain informed them.

Athos, who always had been an admirer of horse flesh, couldn't help himself and he climbed on the bottom rail of the fence to better study the horses. "They are amazingly well matched. Almost as if they were twins. The mares are big."

"And the geldings a bit small. You should see them when rigged to a carriage. They have a touch of showmanship in them. Heads highs. Tails flagging. Knee action that reaches the sky."

"I am sure the King paid handsomely for them," Roudon commented with a little sneer. "And it will do wonders for your estate's reputation. After seeing these beauties, the nobility will flock here for your horses and line your coffers with their coin."

"My horses are already on the finest estates in France," Jourdain responded mildly. "Many nobles come here to buy horses for their first-born sons. My father bred a line which is not as heavy as the horses of old that had to carry knights in substantial armor. Then you needed bulk and muscle. Today's cavalry horse is of finer bone, graceful, yet can go all day. Also, intelligent, for we ask much more of our warhorses of today. And when at peace, these horses are elegant and stylish. A perfect animal for those with discriminating taste."

"My father always said horses are a tool," Roudon declared brusquely as he turned away from the fence. "And should be treated as such."

Jourdain wanted to tell the man he was a fool, but he held his tongue. "I imagine you gentlemen will be wanting to make an early start in the morning. Shall I show you to your rooms?"

"That would be fine," Roudon answered for the group.

As they started to move off, Athos didn't follow, but stayed on the fence looking at the horses.

"Athos!" Roudon yelled when he saw the dawdling man.

"I'll be up shortly. My horse's leg felt a little hot earlier. I'd like to check it before turning in," he replied quietly as he stepped down to the ground.

Jourdain saw this as an opportunity to have a private talk with Athos, so turning to the musketeer he said, "I am very experienced with equine injuries. Let me accompany you and examine your horse's leg. Jacque has a wonderful liniment for muscle strains." Jourdain smiled at the rest of his guests. "If you will excuse me. I hate to see a horse suffering. If you head back to the house, Denice will show you to your rooms." Turning back towards Athos he inquired, "Shall we go?"

Athos knew what Jourdain was doing, but he was helpless to stop it. So, he tilted his head to the side and gave a little nod of acknowledgement. Aramis and Porthos were torn between staying with Athos and giving him his space, for that seemed to be what he wanted.

Aramis took a step towards the swordsman, then immediately saw that his presence was not appreciated. So, he simply said, "Remember, Athos. I want to check that wound."

That, unfortunately, got Roudon's attention, for he was unaware that anyone in his troop was hurt. "He is wounded?" The musketeer angrily rounded on Aramis. "Why is it I am unaware of his injury? When did this happen?"

"At the battle," Porthos rumbled. "When he was fighting for his life."

"Well he must not have fought very well if he was wounded. Why did Captain Treville burden me with an injured man?"

Aramis raised his hands in a placating gesture. "It is nothing to be worried about. A light flesh wound that in no way incapacitates him."

"Aramis is a worry-wart, that's all. He mother-hens us to death," Porthos said with a little grin which caused Aramis to roll his eyes.

Roudon looked from the marksman to the streetfighter, then turned and walked away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances, then trailed after the group on its way to the house.

Jourdain looked at Athos, who simply turned on his heel and headed towards the barn. After they entered through the main doors, Athos started to head down the aisle when Jourdain stated, "There is nothing wrong Roger's fetlock, is there."

Athos stopped, turned and confessed. "No."

"Then let's go in the office and talk. It's more private. Something you seem to be cultivating." Jourdain walked through the doorway to the right and, after Athos came in, he shut the door behind him. "We won't be disturbed here. Unless the barn is burning down."

The horse breeder dropped into one chair and gestured Athos to take the other. "I'm sorry. I have no wine to offer you down here, though your leader thinks having you near alcohol is a poor idea. Is it really you, Olivier?"

"Olivier is dead. I am Athos," the musketeer stated in a flat tone as he lowered himself into the other chair.

"Athos, the musketeer." Jourdain paused for a moment, then decided to plunge in, for he and Olivier had been friends and he felt he could be blunt. "So, it is true. What they say of you, of the Comte de la Fére?"

"I suppose," Athos drawled as his eyes stared towards the high window in the room. "It depends on what they are saying."

"They are saying that your wife murdered your brother, you hanged her, shut down your estate and disappeared off the face of France," Jourdain replied frankly, but without malice or judgement.

Athos grimaced and looked away. "I would say that is mostly…accurate."

Jourdain sat back in his chair, sighing loudly. "Hell of a story, Olivier. I know how I felt when Marie died."

"At least you didn't have to hang your wife," Athos spat bitterly, then instantly regretted his harsh words. "I am sorry my friend. I know how much you loved Marie. It appears I have lost my manners along with everything else."

They sat in silence for a few minutes reflecting on their broken lives.

"And now you are a musketeer. You always were a superb horseman. I think my father would have adopted you in a heartbeat. And I never saw anyone best you with a sword. Still, from a Comte to a musketeer. Strange choice."

Athos laughed again, this time with irony, as he looked at Jourdain. "Choice is not exactly the word I would use to describe my induction into the musketeers. But it gives me...purpose…for now… I suppose."

Jourdain's eyes turned dark and his voice took on a hesitating cadence. "I also heard tales, of a superior swordsman, who drinks to excess and pick fights with no chance of winning."

"And yet, here I am," Athos retorted, with the hint of a smirk. "Very much alive and sober."

Jourdain noted that Athos did not deny it was him. "Yes. Yes, you are. And the musketeers. Do they know of your background? Your birthright?"

Shaking his head, Athos responded vehemently. "No. And I wish to keep it that way. I am simply Athos, the musketeer. Olivier is no more. I hope you can respect my decision."

Jourdain nodded his head slowly. "Your past is safe with me."

"Marie. I hadn't heard she had passed. My condolences," Athos offered up sincerely, knowing how much Jourdain had loved his wife.

"Yes. The sickness took her away. It was hard. I threw myself into my work to forget, I guess. But it never really goes away."

Athos nodded, knowing exactly what his friend meant. Anne forever haunted him, especially in his dreams. Alcohol could sometimes momentarily banish her, but she always came back.

Jourdain stretched his legs and flexed his feet. It was good to talk to his old friend. "So that was Roger. I wondered. Does he still have that disagreeable streak?"

"Let's just say he is not the favorite of the stable boys. But he has saved my life more than once," Athos said with a hint of a smile.

"As you saved his. My father was on the verge of gelding him and selling him to some farmer for plow work. Until you came along. And my father was a very patient man."

"Roger and I suit each other," Athos declared succinctly.

"Did your father ever come to see Roger's better qualities? As I recall, he was quite annoyed at my father for letting you purchase that horse."

"I gave your father no real choice but to sell me Roger." Athos exhaled sharply and leaned his head back in the chair. "And, no. It was simply another area in which my father and I…disagreed."

"Your relationship. With your father. It never got better?" Jourdain asked sympathetically. He had known the de la Fére family for years and on many occasions had opportunity to see the struggles of the father and the son to find a way to relate. He and his father had a mutual love and respect for each other despite their differing opinions on some things. He had always wished the same for his friend, who had such a troubled relationship with his own father.

"I never was able to live up to his standards. And, as it seems..." Athos declared, sweeping his hands over his uniform, "... he was right."

"Olivier…"

"It's Athos; I have let that ship sail. Let's not call her back to port. The past shall remain the past."

Jourdain could hear the silent plea in his friend's voice and he respected the unspoken request.

"You are always welcome here if you tire of the life of a soldier. You are very good with horses. You could do wonderful work with them." Even though he made the offer, Jourdain's gut told him it would never be accepted.

"Thank you, old friend, but I am no longer the man you knew. I am…" Athos voice trailed off and he paused for a moment in contemplation before he added, "I am content to serve my King and country until my death."

Jourdain tried hard to repress a shudder that wanted to rack his frame at the musketeer's bleak tone. "You make it sound so morbid. Is the life of a musketeer that dangerous?"

"I have pledged to defend my King and the musketeers with whom I serve, even at the expense of my own being. The life of a soldier is not his own," the swordsman declared with a small shake of his head.

"Well, Athos. My offer stands. You will always have sanctuary here. Now, I suppose we should go check Roger's leg, at least for appearance sake," the horse breeder said with a small grin.

They rose, left the room and walked down the dirt aisle towards the black stallion's stall. "Your Lieutenant, Roudon, doesn't seem to like you and some of the others."

Athos thought it was interesting that Jourdain had already picked up on that fact. "Roudon doesn't like anyone who is not of the nobility. He feels Captain Treville has…sullied the regiment by letting in the likes of the common man."

Jourdain gave him an incredulous look. "But you out rank him!"

"Something he won't ever know," Athos reminded his friend. "However, Captain Treville is an honest and fair man who judges people not on their social status, but on their worth." Athos paused a moment then added, "At least that is what I prefer to believe."

"Your Captain. Treville. I believe I have heard of him," Jourdain stated as they stopped outside the door to Roger's stall. "His family comes from a long line of soldiers, noblesse militaire. They have purchased horses from my family over the years. Good family my father always said."

With a nod, Athos agreed. "Captain Treville is a good man and a fair leader."

In that one short statement, Jourdain could hear Olivier's respect for the man, something he knew his friend did not give out lightly. "I'm surprised your Captain doesn't know of your background."

Athos opened the door, clearly uncomfortable by the direction the conversation had taken. "He does know. I couldn't part with my family sword and the Captain…found it. But he has sworn to keep my secret. When I was presented to the King for my commission, it was as Athos, the soldier, not Olivier, the Comte de la Fére. Olivier is dead," he repeated once more with finality.

Roger's ears pricked forward when he saw his owner enter the stall, then flattened when Jourdain stepped into view. He stamped an angry foot in warning until Athos gave him a light slap on the shoulder as a reprimand. With a snort, Roger's ears went back to half-mast.

Jourdain ran a practiced eye over the black stallion. He was one of his father's best breeding. Not too big, not too small. Strong and yet light on his feet. Except for his temperamental streak, a pleasing specimen. "He looks wonderful, Athos," Jourdain stated, reminding himself to use the correct name. Jourdain watched as Athos scratched the stallion's crest and he could see the mutual love and respect between man and beast.

"His hide, not unlike my own, has a few scars, but he is of sound mind and heart. He performed well in the battle last week. It was our first," Athos remarked with a small sigh.

Jourdain heard a touch of sorrow in Athos' voice. "Well, it appears you both survived. Though, Aramis is it? He said you were wounded. If you are in need of a doctor, I know…"

Athos held up his hand. "I am fine. It was a mere scratch and Aramis, who is a skilled field doctor, took care of it. Aramis tends to…fuss, sometimes."

"I'm glad you have friends who care for your well-being." Jourdain, who had learned to read the quiet boy known as Olivier, could see that Athos, the man, still struggled with the concept of self-worth. He touched Athos on the arm and said, "Friends are a good thing, Olivier."

Giving all appearances of not having heard Jourdain's last comment, Athos gave Roger a final pat, then walked out of the stall. Jourdain followed, securing the door behind him. "Can he still open his stall door?" Jourdain inquired as he firmly pushed down the latch.

A glint of amusement sparked in Athos' green eyes. "When he chooses. And if it is the right type. The garrison made a few changes to their latches after he arrived. Bars, such as you have on here, thwart his escape attempts."

"And he is why we have them," Jourdain said with a laugh. "Right after he left, we had a rash of escapees. As if Roger had taught them the trick of how to open their stall doors as a parting gift. Damn near drove my father nuts until he had the bars installed."

They walked in silence back to the main house and then Jourdain led him upstairs to where his housekeeper had made up rooms for the musketeers. He noted that she had placed Roudon, Pierre and Francis in separate rooms, but Aramis and Porthos in the same one.

"I'm sorry, gentlemen. I'm not sure why my housekeeper has you sharing a room. There is plenty of space for each of you to have his own room," Jourdain declared when he looked in the open door of the room that had been given to the three musketeers.

Aramis, who had been by the window, walked over. "No need for apologies. We asked for a large room we could share. Habit, I suppose, from being on the road. Safety in numbers. Always have someone watching your back."

"Well I can assure you, you are safe here," Jourdain replied lightly as he glanced at each man.

"No offence was meant," Athos said smoothly as he walked past Jourdain to his brother's side. "It is as Aramis said, merely a habit. The King's musketeers are not welcome in many places."

"As hard as that is to believe, for we really are charming people," Aramis said with a big smile.

"Well, if you are sure," Jourdain answered, skeptically.

"We are," Porthos stated firmly. "Now, if you happen to have any extra food, you'd like to send our way…"

"Porthos!" Aramis admonished. "You just ate!"

"I meant for him," the streetfighter whined in a hurt tone as he gestured towards Athos. "He hasn't eaten since midday."

Jourdain looked from man to man and then back to Athos. "I'll be happy to send up some food, enough for a few men. You really do take care of each other, don't you? Perhaps you did make the right choice, Athos." With that, Jourdain walked out of the room to arrange for food to be delivered.

Porthos closed the door, as Athos moved across the room and stripped off his gloves, tossing them on the table.

"What did he mean? You made the right choice, Athos?" Aramis asked he watched Athos begin to remove his jacket.

"From earlier. He was merely complementing Roger. Thought he was a fine horse," Athos lied smoothly as he undid his weapons belt, draping it over a chair.

"Yeah," Porthos challenged from the chair in which he was lounging. "Well he hasn't been bitten by that black devil while trying to groom him."

"Or been pushed in the river by the unruly beast," Aramis added ruefully. "Though I'm pretty sure that Roger didn't do that of his own accord."

"I was nowhere near him when that occurred," Athos defended himself as he unbuttoned his doublet and added it to the pile.

"You were close enough to give him a hand signal. And I know for a fact that beast knows some. Now strip off that shirt and let me see that wound."

"Mother hen," Athos muttered, as he pulled the linen garment over his head. "I should have slept in the stable."


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

As it turned out, Athos did end up in the stable that night. He'd gone to bed with his brethren and had fallen asleep, but as dawn neared, so did his nightmares. For once they were not of his brother and his wife, but rather of the new horror he had faced a few days ago. The battlefield. He was not a stupid man and understood his brain was trying to process the brutality he had seen, as well as his own actions simply to survive. But the images were horrendous and he woke with his heart pounding and his skin soaked with sweat.

Quietly, he sat up on the edge of the bed, then gazed about to see if he had disturbed his roommates. Thankfully, they were still asleep and he was glad he had not woken them so they could not ask him what was wrong. He needed solitude at the moment, not questions.

Silently, he drew on his boots, which were next to his bed, then rose. He glanced at his doublet, but he was still hot and could do without it. His eyes also fell on his weapons belt. Still new to his profession, he didn't see the need for it as he only planned to go to the fields and watch the horses. He would learn, soon enough, that a musketeer never goes anywhere without his weapons. Musketeers, the King's elite guard, were not universally loved, or even respected in some circles. Another lesson he would learn.

Heading through the darkened house, he made his way outside to the paddock behind the stable. Studying it, he saw his horse must have elected to stay in his stall and not let himself into the grassy fenced area. Roger's stall had two doors, one that opened to the stable and one to the paddock and the one to the outside didn't have bars. His horse could have easily opened the latch since the upper portion of the door had been left open to let in a breeze. Perhaps it was cooler inside or Roger was simply too tired for his tricks.

In the early light of dawn, Athos could see the horses peacefully grazing. He noted a group of them towards the left portion of the large grassy area, close to the small stream that ran through the property. He climbed over the railings, dropped to the other side and began moving in the direction of the horses. A few raised their heads with curiosity as he approached, but none scattered.

He gave a nearby chestnut mare a solid pat before moving forward and perching on a log near the stream. It was very tranquil by the babbling brook. Other than the munching of the grass by the horses and the sound of the trickling water, silence ruled the pasture as the sun rose on the horizon, painting the world once more with its golden rays.

The lands of the estate were gently rolling, so Athos heard the hoof beats before he actually saw the riders. Twenty of them, he quickly estimated, as they crested the hill in the distance. The mares around him had already lifted their heads, ears flickering in confusion, nostrils flaring. It was clear they did not know these strangers who were invading their meadow.

Athos didn't believe he'd been spotted yet and his gut told him he wanted to keep it that way. Grabbing the halter of the grey mare nearest him he used her as a shield. The mare was puzzled at first at what she was expected to do for the man tugged her forward, towards the barn, but then stepped backwards. Which way did he expect her to go? She stopped and turned her heads towards him.

On a hunch, he whispered, "Barn." Sure enough, when he dropped back by her shoulder, the mare kept moving forward, this time towards the stable.

The rest of the mares in the group gathered around them and began moving towards the barn too. It was perfect, for all the extra horse legs helped hide the set of human ones. Athos kept risking little peeks over the top of the mares' backs to keep tabs on the intruders on the hill. The riders were headed for the barn, but at a pace that seemed to indicate he hadn't been spotted yet.

Once he and the mares got to the barn, Athos stopped by the stall that held Roger. His black stallion was already hanging his head over the top of the door to see why so many beautiful mares were coming towards his stall. Athos tugged slightly on the mare's halter to get her to stop by the stall door. Obediently, she and the rest of the harem came to a halt.

"Don't get your hopes up," Athos chided his horse. He gave the mare a pat on the neck as he glanced out into the pasture to check the progress of the men.

The riders were more than halfway across the pasture and he saw they were picking up speed. Had he been spotted or were the men more anxious now that they could see their destination? Turning away, he hoisted himself over Roger's half door then moved across the stall to the other door that led into the aisle. Reaching between the bars, he worked the latch free and let himself into the aisle.

Noting that Roger was watching him with his ears partially laid back, Athos shrugged and smirked at the horse's frustration because the stallion couldn't unlatch the door. "Helps to have arms and hands." He gave the horse an understanding pat on the nose before closing the stall door.

He ran on the balls of his feet as silently as he could up the long aisle towards the office. As he heard the hoof beats outside drawing nearer, he tried to remember where the gate to the pasture was located. Near the stable's main door if he recalled, around the side where the fence abutted the barn. If they came into the barn, he would be discovered, something he didn't feel would be a good idea, so he scanned about for a place to hide. His eyes travelled to the chest in the office, big enough to hide a man. But he'd have to empty it and if these were thieves, there was a good chance they'd look for valuables in the chest, leaving him a sitting duck.

Having scanned the floor, his eyes went upwards, towards the open rafters. Not a bad place to hide or launch an ambush if necessary. Hearing the hoof beats growing louder and knowing his time was running out, he sprinted to the half partition of a wall, which set off an area where the carts were stored. Scaling the partition, he balanced on top, but could not reach the rafters overhead. Jumping down, he ran over to the tallest carriage in the room, the one no doubt used to train the team of golden horses for the King and Queen. It was a very high affair. He scrambled from the ground to the coachman's bench, and then to the top of the carriage roof.

Unfortunately, the vehicle was not directly under any of the wooden rafter beams. He was going to have to make a leap for the nearest one. In hindsight, he wished he'd brought his gloves and his weapons. He was learning a valuable lesson, albeit the hard way. With a grunt, he launched himself towards the beam and managed to get a good enough hold on it to pull the rest of his body up and onto it. Carefully, he stood and moved down the beam towards a dark corner and none too soon, as he heard the paddock gate crash open. The riders had arrived.


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

Aramis and Porthos woke up to find their friend gone, though they were not unduly alarmed for they were used to his solitary ways. They hoped, over time, he might try seeking solace from them when he had nightmares. Yes, they heard Athos' restless struggles at night, but they tried to pretend they didn't so as not to embarrass him. Only a few times, when he had thrashed so hard caught in the throes of a nightmare that they feared he'd harm himself, had they intervened and it was never a good day after that occurred. Athos would coolly, but politely, thank them for their 'assistance' then either disappear or, if on the road, remain silent and aloof for the rest of the day. The only thing he didn't do, if they were on a mission, was turn to the bottle. They didn't know it, but Athos had made a promise to Captain Treville not to be drunk on duty and to date, despite Roudon's accusations, he had managed to keep that promise.

As Aramis stretched his limbs in bed, Porthos rose and walked across the room to where Athos' weapons belt lay hanging over the chair. Picking it up, he rattled it with annoyance. "Remind me to lecture him on always taking his weapons with him. Even if it is just to take a piss. We always need to be prepared."

With a final pop of his shoulder joint, which had been abused over the years, Aramis concluded his stretches. "He's new. He'll learn."

"Well, let's hope he learns before he gets killed," Porthos grumbled as he dropped the belt back on the chair. "I'd hate to break in anyone new."

"Please. No jokes like that. What we have now, it is like we were born to belong, like God made us to be together," Aramis waxed a bit mystical, causing Porthos to grin before turning serious.

"I don't know about the God part, but Athos does fit in with our fighting style remarkably well. At the battle, he did good. He was there when he was needed, but not underfoot. He held his own."

"He did do well, but it doesn't mean he is used to it, or the aftermath. I think that is why the Captain sent us on this mission. To give Athos some time away from the regiment, with us, to help him understand what he is feeling is normal," Aramis said thoughtfully, as slipped his shirt over his muscle-hardened chest.

"Yeah, well if Treville wanted a peaceful trip, he shouldn't have put Roudon in charge," Porthos groused. "Doesn't the Captain realize that man is an ass?"

Slipping on his pants, Aramis considered the question. "I believe Captain Treville is familiar with all his men's peculiarities, including Roudon's."

"Then why'd he put that jackass in charge? Instead of you?" Porthos continued to complain as he assembled his own attire.

"For one, Roudon does have seniority. And perhaps this is a test for us. A good soldier has to be able to work through any difficult situation."

"No. This is some sort of punishment for something we done. That's what I think," Porthos declared firmly as he buttoned up his shirt.

Aramis walked over and looked at himself in the mirror then straightened his clothes ever so slightly. "We do tend to vex the Captain at times, so you may be right."

"Of course, I am," Porthos declared with conviction. "If you are done primping over there can we go see if there is any food been laid out. I need a hearty meal in my stomach to put up with the likes of Lieutenant Roudon all day."

After a final adjustment, Aramis turned away from the mirror to head for the door. "I would think the Lieutenant would make you sick to your stomach."

Porthos shook his head before explaining his logic. "Nah, being hungry makes me sick to my stomach. And irritable. I need patience to deal with him and food to be patient!"

As they headed for the staircase that led downstairs, they came across Jourdain who was also up and about. "You're up early," the Comte observed.

"Not too early for breakfast?" Porthos queried in a hopeful tone.

"I'm sure Martha has something prepared," Jourdain assured him. "She knows I am often up early with the horses." At the bottom of the staircase they turned right and headed towards the dining room. "Where is your third?"

"Athos?" Porthos replied as they rounded the corner. A smile spread across his face when he saw the table full of food in the dining room.

"Athos," Jourdain repeated, as is he were trying out the name. "Yes, Athos."

"He is an even earlier riser on occasion. I'm sure he simply went to the stable to check on Roger's fetlock. Was it very swollen?" Aramis asked as Jourdain handed him an empty plate from the stack on the buffet.

"Swollen?" Jourdain echoed, as if he had no idea as to what Aramis was referring.

"Roger's fetlock? His horse, Roger. Athos indicated it was swollen last night. I thought you and he went to examine it," Aramis stated, a note of doubt creeping into his voice.

Cursing himself, Jourdain took a moment to gather his wits by handing a plate to Porthos before answering. "Pardon, I had forgotten the name of the horse," the Comte lied smoothly, hoping his excuse seemed realistic. Jourdain picked up his own plate, walked over to the food and put his back to the musketeers as he filled it. "The horse's leg was fine. No swelling. No heat. Nothing to worry about," he replied casually over his shoulder.

Porthos and Aramis gave each other a questioning look, then shrugged it off and filled their own plates. As they sat to eat, Roudon, Pierre and Francis joined them, filling their own plates before taking a seat at the long table.

"Unless I have forgotten how to count, aren't we one musketeer short? Did Athos oversleep?" Roudon asked in a tone that could only be called insinuating.

Porthos started to open his mouth to give an angry retort, but Aramis shoved a roll smeared with jelly at his face, effectively cutting him off. "You must try this jelly, Porthos. It is delicious."

Porthos glared at Aramis as he wiped jelly out of his beard. He couldn't help but think there were better methods Aramis could have employed if he wanted him to remain quiet. However, the jelly was delicious, as claimed, so he quickly forgot his irritation and enjoyed the roll.

"As for Athos, he is in the barn. Checking on the horses. Making sure they are fit for the journey. He is very conscientious that way," Aramis charitably offered up to their leader who simply scowled at the remark.

Suddenly, the sound of multiple hooves could be heard in the yard in front of the house. "I wonder who that could be this early?" Jourdain questioned curiously as he rose from his chair and moved towards his front door.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance, something tickling their well-honed intuition. They rose, hands on their weapons, and followed behind Jourdain. Roudon, Francis and Pierre merely glanced up from their plates, but didn't bother to stir from their chairs.

When Jourdain got to the large oak door, he flung it open and stepped out on the porch into the morning sunlight before the musketeers could warn him to be cautious. He strode down the steps and watched as strangers on horseback advanced towards him. The riders had their guns drawn and the sound of a shot rang out. Jourdain yelped in pain as a bullet tore into his leg causing him to collapse onto the ground.

Upon hearing the musket fire, Porthos and Aramis rushed forward, pistols drawn, though they were careful to stay away from the open door. Porthos gestured to a window to the right of the door and they both crouched under the sill before cautiously rising to peer out the pane to see what was happening outside.

"Twenty men, I'd gauge," Aramis said softly to Porthos, who nodded his head. By now, Roudon, Francis and Pierre were on the move, stirred by the sound of the gunshot.

"What is going on?" Roudon demanded as he drew close to the window, crouching next to Aramis.

"Comte Vergy has been shot. By those men out there," Aramis answered as he risked another peek out the window. A handful of the men had dismounted and were advancing towards the downed man while others disappeared towards the barn.

"Why did they shoot him?" Roudon asked, as if he believed Aramis should have a ready answer.

"I have no idea and I don't think it prudent to walk out there and ask them in case they aren't done shooting yet," the marksman snidely retorted.

Outside, the leader of the horsemen, who had dismounted, walked up on the man on the ground. "My name is Anton," he said in a polite tone. "Are you the owner of this estate?"

"I am," Jourdain answered, holding onto his bleeding leg and doing his best to not sound as scared as he was feeling.

"Then it is good that you are not yet dead." Anton said with a Spanish accent as he aimed his pistol at Jourdain's forehead. "If you wish to stay that way, you will do as I say." Raising his voice a little, he addressed the open door of the house. "Those of you in the house. If you want him to stay alive, you too will cooperate."

As Anton spoke, soldiers, whom the musketeers had not noticed, had circled the house, entered through the back-kitchen door, stepped into the foyer, and were now aiming their weapons at the backs of the five musketeers crouching by the windows.

Anton gestured for four more of his men to enter the house. With pistols drawn, the soldiers entered through the open front door. "Place your weapons on the floor," one of them harshly demanded, menacingly waving his gun at them. The five musketeers stood and slowly complied, placing their swords, daggers and pistols on the stone floor then taking a step back away from the piles.

Gesturing for one of his men to take over his position holding a gun to Jourdain's head, the Spanish Captain Anton walked across the yard, mounted the porch and then stepped into the house to survey the scene.

"There doesn't need to be bloodshed here today if you do exactly as you are told." Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and his voice grew harder. "What do we have here?" Anton questioned staring at the pauldrons on the musketeers' shoulders. "King's musketeers, I do believe." This situation had suddenly gotten a lot more interesting to the Spanish captain of the raiding party. Perhaps there was more than horses to be had here today. A chance for him to earn glory in the eyes of his superiors.

Roudon authoritatively took a step forward to haughtily address the Spaniard. "We are indeed musketeers. In the name of the King, I order you to drop your weapons and surrender immediately."

Anton paused for a moment, as if he were actually considering the idea, then offered up a lazy smile. "I don't recognize the authority of your King." With a command to his men outside, he had Jourdain dragged into the foyer. "This is very simple. You will cooperate, or he will die, then you will die."

Even though he was bristling, Roudon saw no other option than to cooperate. "We understand and will cooperate."

"Isn't that called aiding and abetting the enemy?" Porthos whispered to Aramis. Aramis cocked an eyebrow but remained silent when the Spanish captain's eyes focused on them for a moment before looking away.

Anton spoke to his own men in Spanish and a number began to disperse, some outside and some into the bowels of the house. "They are rounding up your servants," Anton addressed the wounded Comte. "And will confine them for their safety."

A few seconds later, men carrying ropes entered through the open front doorway. One of them went into the dining room, then came back out. After a hushed conversation, Anton spoke once more, addressing the musketeers. "You will move into the dining room, each choose a chair, sit and be as still as a statue while my men tie you up."

Jourdain was hauled into the dining room by the soldiers and they began to secure him to a chair.

"His leg wound. Let me examine it before you tie him up," Aramis pleaded when he saw Jourdain's blood-soaked pants leg.

Anton walked over to Jourdain, whipped out his dagger and silt the Comte's pants leg up to the knee. Pulling the material to the side, he exposed the bullet wound in Jourdain's calf. "See. The ball went through the leg. No need for worry." Dropping the bloody material, he wiped his gloved finger-tips on the tablecloth where they had just been eating leaving red streaks behind. Gesturing, he commanded his men to finish their work.

While the musketeers were being tied up, Anton walked down the length of the table contemplatively studying the food until he came to the plate of pastries, where he stopped and chose one. After taking a bite, he chewed with a thoughtful look on his face before swallowing. "You French are lousy soldiers, but good cooks. This is one thing we might keep, after we conquer your country."

Porthos glared at the Spanish captain and looked like he was going to offer up an opinion, but Aramis made a slight noise and the streetfighter, reluctantly, remained quiet. Aggravating the enemy would do no good at this point.

By the time that Jourdain and the five musketeers had been secured to their respective chairs, the Spaniards that had been sent to round up the servants returned. One of them whispered in Anton's ear and the man turned to Jourdain and inquired, "How many servants attend the household?"

"In the house? Six," the Comte promptly replied.

"And in the barns?"

"Ten."

Anton looked at the men who had secured the household staff and they nodded, indicating they had found all six servants.

"Felipe, go see how many servants they have found outside. Make sure all ten have been located and secured."

Aramis and Porthos eagerly were watching for avenues of escape, but none were presenting themselves that would not risk everyone's lives. They also knew that Athos was still unaccounted for, which was an advantage for their side though they realized one man against twenty wasn't the best odds.

After what seemed like an eternity, Felipe returned and after another quick consultation with Anton, he stepped back and waited. Jourdain looked up as Anton approached him once more. "It would appear we have secured all your servants," Anton announced with a grin of satisfaction.

"What do you want?" Aramis asked, even though he had an inkling of an idea given the business of the estate.

Anton walked over to the window to observe how the preparations outside were proceeding before announcing, "I am here to take your stallions for the glory of Spain."


	14. Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14

Athos soundlessly watched from the rafters as Anton's men systematically made their way from stall to stall, leading away selected stallions. As the soldiers approached Roger's stall, the swordsman cautiously moved across the rafters until he was close to the box, then he melted back into the shadows near the wall.

One of the soldiers stood outside the stall holding Roger's bridle, which he had taken off the hook outside the stall door. When the latch on the door rattled, the black stallion pinned his ears back flat against his head and gave a stomp of his back hoof to express his opinion on some stranger entering his stall. However, he was a trained horse so he didn't lunge at the man as the door slowly opened. But he did continue to snort and roll his eyes to show his displeasure with the situation.

Athos remained quiet, hoping to use the fact they hadn't found him yet to some advantage. As no reinforcements had come from the house, he had to assume the rest of the musketeers were already captives of the Spanish. Or dead, his mind tacked on. Athos quickly shoved that thought away even though he had heard the single gunshot.

After a bit of a struggle, the soldier got the bridle on Roger's head and the animal discontentedly chewed on the metal bit while shaking his head. The soldier, swearing under his breath in Spanish, gave the reins a strong yank downwards jerking Roger's head. Then he led the stallion into the aisle, where the black horse planted his hooves and refused to move any further.

Finally, the soldier lost the last of his patience. He secured the reins to a hook on the wall and stormed down the aisle, back towards the stable's tack room. A few seconds he later he reappeared with a driving whip in his hand. He gave a few practice cracks as he approached the stallion. When he was close enough, he brought it to bear on the stallion's rump and Roger screamed in anger.

Athos, who was still in the rafters towards the back of the stall, began carefully moving towards the aisle as the soldier brought the whip to bear two more times on Roger's hindquarters. Unable to stand by and watch Roger be whipped, Athos dropped out of the rafters, knocking the soldier to the ground. They both hit the dirt floor with a grunt and Athos, who quickly recovered, sent a swift hook to the man's jaw. Two more brutal blows with all the power he could muster behind them and the soldier's eyes rolled back in his head as he passed out.

The soldiers in the stalls beyond Roger's stepped into the aisle to see what was going on. Athos, spotting them and, realizing he had gotten himself into a no-win situation, slowly backed up as they advanced towards him. In desperation, Athos called out to Roger and the black horse swung his hindquarters trying to knock the approaching soldiers against the wall. The unlucky soldier on the right was caught by the stallion's muscular hindquarters and crushed into the stall door. However, the other two, on the left, slipped by. The horse did lash out with his feet, but it was too late and his hooves didn't strike either of them.

At least one was down, Athos thought as he debated his next move. His heart sank when he heard a sound behind him and a glance over his shoulder showed two more soldiers hurrying up the aisle behind him. His odds had just gotten much worse.

He didn't have time to think anymore as a shout went out in Spanish and all the soldiers rushed him at once. Athos used every trick Porthos had taught him, but unarmed and out-numbered, he was soon subdued, on his back, on the ground, arms and legs firmly pinned. The man he had knocked unconscious, woke and, scowling, he slowly sat up while rubbing his sore jaw. When he saw that they had Athos pinned to the dirt, he rose, walked over and gave the immobilized musketeer a swift kick in the torso with his boots. Then he gestured for them to haul the man to his feet, which they did, restraining him against the front of a stall.

The soldier got within inches of Athos' face and the musketeer's command of Spanish was good enough to know the man was cursing at him. Athos eyes showed no fear, remaining cold and hard, as the man raised his fist to punch him in the face. Athos' skin beneath his cheek bone split, and even though he felt his own warm blood trickling down his cheek, his attitude remained defiant, which infuriated the soldier even more.

As the soldier drew his fist back to deliver yet another blow, a shout was heard from outside. The hit was never delivered, and instead, Athos was pulled away from the wall and dragged down the aisle. Up by the tack room, a length of rope was brought out and his hands were roughly secured behind his back. After his hands were tied, they shoved him out of the stable into the sunlight, which made him blink and stumble to his knees, the bright light blinding after the dimness of the stable.

"Take him up to the house with the rest of them," one of the soldiers instructed as he looked distastefully at Athos kneeling in the dirt.

Athos' heart skipped a beat for that was a piece of good news. It meant the others, while captive, were still alive. Deciding his best move at the moment was to be subservient and obedient, he rose to his feet, bowed his head and meekly allowed the men to lead him towards the house. The soldiers were happy and assumed his change of heart had to do with the fact they had cowed Athos by showing him who was in charge.

Anton, who was still in the dining room eating the food laid out on the table, paused in his chewing when one of his men entered the room, walked over and then whispered in his ear. Standing and giving the musketeers an unfathomable look, the leader of the Spanish soldiers left the room. A few minutes later, he returned with Athos and the men who had captured him.

"Who is this that felt the need to defy us?" Anton asked Jourdain in a deceptively calm voice. The leader of the soldiers was getting rather tired of surprises. This was supposed to be an easy mission. Grab the stallions and bring them back over the border to Spain to become part of the breeding program to support the growing Spanish army. The Spanish were getting short on quality horses to mount their troops. They knew about this estate with its plethora of superior horseflesh and they decided it was remote enough to make it worth the risk to steal the stallions. Anton had not expected to find the King's Musketeers here, though now that he had he was going to turn that to his advantage.

His orders had been clear; get the horses and get out with minimum fuss. Spain had provoked a small skirmish with the soldiers of France to the south of the area to test out the preparedness of the French troops. He idly wondered if these musketeers had been part of that battle and who had won. However, he didn't think it prudent to ask, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Jourdain looked at his friend Athos as he stood there, trussed with blood smeared on the side of his face and he saw the slightest shake of the man's head, so he didn't respond to Anton's inquiry.

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Anton demanded, his voice carrying an unspoken threat. "I don't like repeating myself, especially in your foreign language that hurts my tongue."

Athos had been silently debating which path to follow. He could claim he was a worker on the estate for he'd left the room this morning in a simple shirt and pants that didn't necessarily scream King's musketeer. Was there some advantage he could make out of being a simple stable hand? Or was it better to declare himself as a King's musketeer?

What Athos didn't know was Anton already suspected he was a musketeer for, when his men had searched the house, they had found an unclaimed jacket with the distinctive pauldron as well was the weapons in one of the bedrooms. As all the other musketeers were dressed and none were missing their insignia, it wasn't hard to conclude there was another musketeer they had not yet identified. The leader of the soldiers was waiting to see how this would unfold.

"I work for Comte Vergy. In the stables," Athos said quietly, keeping his head lowered.

So, the musketeer went with a lie. Interesting, Anton thought. What did he hope to gain by hiding his identity? The leader did wonder for a second if he was mistaken, but he didn't think so for something about the supposedly contrite man indicated musketeer more than stable-hand.

Anton took a few steps closer to Athos. "I was told you attacked my men in the stable quite viciously."

"Your men were whipping one of my stallions without cause," Athos answered slowly, still keeping his eyes downcast and his body unassuming.

Anton gave a little laugh. "Without cause? I hear the animal was causing quite a ruckus." Turning and walking towards Jourdain, he made a little tut-tutting noise. "Really, Monsieur. I was told you breed the best horses in all of France. Is this how they all behave? For if so, I will be disappointed. Perhaps this has been a waste of my time."

Athos spoke up once more, not giving Jourdain a chance to speak. "The stallion was frightened, by the commotion. That is all. These are intelligent, sensitive, high-spirited animals, not use to your crude ways."

Anton smiled as he walked back towards Athos with measured steps. With a tilt of his head, one of the men securing Athos reached up, grabbed the musketeer's wavy hair and yanked the swordsman's head upwards. "You want to know what I think? Hmmmm? I think you are lying."

"Why would I lie?" Athos grunted, his green eyes passively gazing at Anton.

"Because, I think you seek to gain some advantage by hiding the fact you, like them," Anton's arm swept towards the other musketeers tied to chairs, "are in fact a musketeer."

Athos neither denied or confirmed the claim, but suddenly attempted to wrench himself free from his captors.

Immediately, the other soldiers in the room converged on Athos, repeatedly hitting him. Athos, hands tied behind his back, found it hard to fight back so instead tried to drop to the floor and curl up in a ball to protect himself. Aramis and Porthos, unable to help themselves, attempted to jump to their feet, but they were securely tied and unable to move. Porthos bellowed like a wounded bull, struggling to break free as he watched his brother being pummeled. Aramis prayed they wouldn't seriously hurt his friend who was still recovering from the battle.

After a few moments, Anton signaled his men to cease beating Athos. Killing the musketeer, at this point, would bring no advantage. In fact, having him alive would serve another purpose, he decided as a plan began to solidify in his mind.

After the men stopped pounding on him, Athos remained in a collapsed heap on the floor. Anton strolled over, stood and stared down at the man. "So, I can assume you are indeed a musketeer?"

Raising his head, Athos stared defiantly at Anton. The once passive green eyes were now snapping with fury and for a moment, the Spanish captain wondered if he had just made a mistake in not having this defiant man killed outright. However, Anton forced himself to remain immobile as the musketeer was dragged upright by his men.

They stood, nearly toe to toe, in a staring contest. Keeping his voice cool, Anton said, "I ask again. Who are you?"

Straightening his body, though the small wince gave away the fact it was painful, Athos answered in a firm, regal voice. "I am Athos. Of the King's Musketeers. You should surrender now and perhaps the King will show leniency...on your men." The subtext of 'but not you' was heard as clearly as if it had been uttered by Athos' lips.

Anton simply stared at the battered man, astounded, then amused by the man's audacity. Laughter burst forth from his mouth. "I think, Monsieur Athos of the King's Musketeers, you are in no position to be making demands." The laughter died from his voice when he saw not an ounce of softening in the musketeer's countenance. Interesting. He was holding all the cards and yet this man in front of him still acted as if he had a play. He decided to implement the plan in his mind. The musketeer probably had knowledge that would be useful to Spain. It would be a feather in his cap to not only bring back the stallions, but also a man possessing knowledge of France's plans and tactics of warfare. And then, after all the useful knowledge had been beaten out of the musketeer he would be killed, a fitting end for this cheeky bastard.

"Monsieur, you are either a fool or a lunatic. Let me tell you how this is going to end. You are going to accompany me, as my guest, to the border of Spain. If there is no pursuit for the horses, I will set you free at the border," Anton lied before he reached over and patronizingly patted Athos on the cheek. "That is how we will proceed."


	15. Chapter 15

CHAPTER 15

Athos was hauled outside to stand under the blazing sun and wait. It took a while to get everything organized, but eventually the soldiers and Anton were ready to depart for Spain. Many of the soldiers held the lead rope of one of Jourdain's prize stallions. In all, they took ten of Comte Vergy's top stock.

"You. Musketeer. Athos was it?" Anton asked as he walked over to where the man in question stood, in the yard, sweating and trying to ignore the signals of pain his unhappy body was sending. The wound on his side had bled a little for he had felt the stickiness on his skin, but mercifully, it seemed only minor. His cheek ached and his ribs were sore from the beating, but he knew it could be worse.

Athos didn't say anything, just tilted his head to look at the approaching Spaniard.

"Is that your horse by chance?" Anton inquired, as the dancing black stallion was led from the barn by one of his men. When the Captain had examined the horse to see if they should take him, he had noticed a few scars on the black hide. It seemed odd a breeding horse would be marked as such and he decided he must be one of the musketeer's mounts.

"He is." Athos answered succinctly.

"Impressive. Is he always this temperamental?" Anton asked as the stallion attempted to nip the soldier who was leading him out of the barn.

"He does not care for…strangers," Athos informed the Spanish captain dryly, the second time on this trip he had to explain Roger's ill-nature.

Anton watched the black stallion for a few minutes, admiring the horse's muscles rippling under his glossy black coat as he danced in the courtyard, tossing his head and shaking his flowing mane. He really was a magnificent animal and based on his scars, battle-trained; one he wanted to bring back to Spain. "He will behave for you?"

A small smile hinted at the corner of Athos' spilt lips. "We have an understanding."

Athos had raised and trained Roger after procuring him as a yearling from Jourdain's father. His own father had thought the temperamental colt a foolish purchase. But Athos had seen intelligence and something more in the horse. Even Jourdain's father had tried to get him to buy a different animal for the black yearling had been a handful and was slated to be gelded. But Athos, then Olivier, had been persuasive, eventually winning and bringing the troublesome black colt home to the de la Fére estate. He and Roger had interesting times getting to know each other and coming to terms. But it had been worth it and now he had a loyal, if slightly moody, companion, much like himself.

"Then you will ride him," Anton declared before instructing his men to saddle the animal.

Looking back at Athos, he warned, "You keep that horse under control or I will personally put a bullet between his devilish brown eyes and then between yours." Roger took that moment to lash out. "Hijo de puta, he is the devil," the soldier cursed as he narrowly avoided the black stallion's hooves.

"What is this horse's name for it should be Diablo," Anton said shaking his head at the black demon's antics.

"His name is Roger," Athos informed the Spaniard.

Anton's head spun around to stare at Athos. "That black beast's name is simply Roger? That is a joke, no?"

Athos shook his head no, as he let out a little sigh. "It's a long story."

Anton stared at the black stallion admiring his physique once more before he turned to one of his men and gave him a softly spoken instruction. The man scurried off into the house and emerged a short time later with a limping Jourdain. The soldier half-dragged the Comte over to his leader. Anton slowly drew his dagger and held it to Jourdain's throat, who immediately stood as still as a statue.

With his eyes on Jourdain, Anton addressed Athos. "Get the horse saddled. Show me he can be controlled. That is if you want to see this man remain alive. I imagine the King frowns upon his nobles being executed."

"Let him go," Athos insisted. "He has nothing to do with this."

"He has everything to do with this for if you are a man of honor, as musketeers are supposed to be, you will not let an innocent man die for your disobedience," Anton declared looking over at Athos with a smug smile.

Athos knew he had no choice other than to meet the Spaniard's demands. "It will be extremely difficult to saddle my horse with my hands tied behind my back."

Anton weighed the request, then gave an order in Spanish to two of his men who cut the ropes securing Athos' wrists.

Athos waited as a soldier went into the stable and fetched Roger's gear. When he came back with the saddle, Athos slowly walked over to retrieve it. The moment Athos drew near, the stallion stopped his antics and gazed at his owner. Without fuss, Athos saddled him, checked over the tack quickly adjusting a few straps and then swung abroad. As soon as he was seated, Athos held his hands out in front of him to be tied again.

"Behind your back. You will be led. Like a child on a pony. And if that devil causes issues…" Anton's voice trailed off as he patted the gun on his belt.

Anton nodded to the man holding the rope to go secure the musketeer's hands once more. The man approached the horse with trepidation, but other than a little flick of one ear, Roger remained a perfect gentleman. When the soldier was done, he went to step away, but Anton called out, "Tie his feet together. Under the stallion's belly." The soldier's face blanched white at the thought of doing what he had been told.

Athos indignantly looked over at Anton. "Is that really necessary?"

"Yes, musketeer. I believe it is prudent. I hear musketeers are clever, though I am sure that is an exaggeration," Anton answered as he pressed the knife harder against Jourdain's throat.

The cool stare that Athos gave Anton indicated they had different ideas of what the word 'prudent' meant, but he submitted quietly, as did Roger. A rope was fastened to his left boot, above his ankle, then run under Roger's belly to Athos' right ankle on the opposite side. A little slack was left, so as not to cause chafing on Roger's skin.

When Athos was secured to his horse, Anton released the blade from Jourdain's neck and the estate owner slumped to the ground, weak-kneed. Anton left the man in a huddle on the ground and went over to where his own horse was being held, swung into the saddle and indicated for the rest of his men to mount. When they all were settled, Anton turned towards Athos who was glaring at him, annoyed at being tied to his horse. It was humiliating as well as dangerous.

"I don't like your attitude, musketeer," Anton warned Athos menacingly, "And for that, he will die." Anton pulled his pistol from its holster, turned and without hesitation shot at Jourdain.

Athos couldn't stop the scream from erupting from his throat. The musketeer tried to turn his horse towards the downed man, but one of the soldiers moved in, reversed his hold on his pistol and slammed the wooden butt into the side of Athos' head, rendering him unconscious. The swordsman slumped in the saddle, but the ropes held him in place.

The rest of the Spanish soldiers mounted their horses and Anton, taking the lead, started down the road, his troops and the stallions falling in behind him.

The people tied up in the dining room heard the gun shot, the scream and then ominous silence. Nausea settled in the pit of their stomachs as they listened to the hoof beats growing fainter and fainter until they became nothing but a memory. Once they were reasonably sure the soldiers were gone, Porthos started rocking his chair until he got it to topple over, onto the floor, with a loud thud.

"Damn chairs are made too well," Porthos groused when he realized that no parts of the chair had been broken by the fall. He lay on his side on the ground still firmly tied to the chair, debating his next move.

Roudon rolled his eyes and snorted. "That was well thought out."

"The silverware. Is it by any chance stored in this room?" Aramis asked the servants as an idea began to blossom in his head.

"Yes. In the buffet. Over there. Behind you," the woman to his right replied quietly, not understanding why the musketeer was asking.

Aramis nodded to himself then begin to hop his chair across the stone floor towards the indicated drawer. When he got closer, he changed his trajectory until the back of his chair abutted the chest. His fingers blindly quested for the drawer pulls.

"Up and to the right," another servant, who was probably the butler, instructed, having a good view of the buffet from where he was tied up and figuring out the musketeer's plan.

Straining so hard at the ropes that his shoulders nearly popped out of their sockets, Aramis got a grip on the drawer handle. Then, keeping a firm hold, he hopped his chair once, away from the cabinet, causing the drawer to jerk open a few inches.

"Can anyone tell me where the knives are located in the drawer?" Aramis asked hopefully, not wanting to have to do a blind search.

The scullery maid spoke up. "On the left side."

"Left as one faces the drawer?" Aramis sought to clarify since his fingers could only reach so far.

"Aye," the girl answered in a positive manner. "And they are sharp. I sharpened them myself not but a fortnight ago."

With care, so as not to bump the drawer closed, Aramis inched his chair to the right until he got to the end of the open drawer. Then, straining once more, he raised his hands as high as possible so his questing fingers could search for a knife inside the open drawer.

The rest of the room held its breath until a small smile crept on Aramis face. "I have one," he announced as he cautiously tried to maneuver it out of the drawer. He had it mostly clear of the drawer, but as he was dragging it over the edge, it slipped and clattered loudly onto the stone floor. A collective groan escaped the mouths of all in the room as the silver knife hit the floor and skittered away.

"I can't believe the Captain thought the two of you would be any help on this mission," Roudon said dismissively. "Even when you come up with a semi-reasonable idea, you can't execute it."

Aramis chose to ignore Roudon's belittling commentary. "How many place settings are in this drawer?" he asked, as he lifted his eyes to address the scullery maid again.

"Eighteen," she replied. "Eighteen."

Aramis let a little smile grace his face, as he lightly jested, "Good. Then I have seventeen more tries left to be successful."

While Aramis went back to try to remove another knife, Porthos clumsily moved his chair in a slithering manner across the smooth marble floor towards the knife that had fallen. At that point, it almost became a competition between the two musketeers to see who could get free first. It was practically a draw with Aramis securing a knife on his third try and sawing through his bonds, while Porthos finally got hold of the one on the floor and cut though his ropes. Once freed, they quickly freed Pierre so he could free the others, then they rushed outside and saw Jourdain laying still in the dirt. Hurrying to his side, they heard a soft moan as the man, who had passed out, woke.

"Where are you hurt?" Aramis asked as he dropped on his knees in the dirt.

Jourdain glanced up at the musketeer. "I am not, other than the first bullet wound in my leg. He fired at me though he didn't hit me. How he could miss at such a close range." he struggled to sit up. "I was so scared when the gun went off, I fainted."

"There's no shame," Porthos said sympathetically as he assisted the Comte to his feet.

"Yes, but Oliv…I mean Athos doesn't ...he saw that Spanish bastard shoot at me…I heard him scream… I fainted. He probably thinks…thinks I'm dead." He bowed his head to hide the fact his face was turning red from making the slip on Athos' name.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look behind Jourdain's back, each having caught the slip of tongue. However, this wasn't the time to ponder on Athos' mysterious past and what this man might be able to tell them. Now was the time to come up with a plan to save Athos' future. The two musketeers shared another uneasy glance, for they knew it was highly unlikely Athos would simply be set free at the border. More likely he would be taken to Spain, tortured for his knowledge and then killed.


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

"I shall ride ahead with Pierre and Francis to let the King know what has transpired. You two, along with four of the Comte's grooms, will follow with the King's horses," Roudon commanded, his arms crossed over his chest. "By separating, we will be able to cover the ground quicker. I do not want to risk injury to the King's carriage horses by pushing them too hard. The King would be very displeased if something happened to his gift for the Queen."

Unfortunately, Aramis thought Roudon, for once, was right about one thing. The King would care more about his horses than Athos' life. It wasn't that the King wanted Athos to die, but sometimes the monarch's priorities were skewed.

"No!" Porthos declared loudly. "Aramis and I have to go after Athos."

Roudon gave the fuming man a withering look, as if once again questioning the streetfighter's intelligence. He spoke slowly, as if Porthos would be unable to grasp the concept otherwise. "The Spaniard said if we don't follow, he will release Athos unharmed at the border. Besides it was Athos own fault for allowing himself to be captured. Very unprofessional. Unless," Roudon said thoughtfully, "Athos wanted to be captured."

"What are you saying?" Porthos growled menacingly.

"What do we know of his background? A nobody. A drunk. Perhaps he is a Spanish spy planted into our mist. Perhaps he wanted to get captured, so he could return to his own country and divulge everything he has learned."

Aramis stared at Roudon, astounded. "Surely you can't think that Athos is a Spanish spy. What a ridiculous thought."

"Didn't I hear your mother was Spanish, Aramis? I would be careful who I defend, Monsieur, especially with your heritage." Roudon gave a knowing look to the others in the room.

"You've got to be joking?" Porthos exclaimed, tired of Roudon's accusations. "You are an idiot!"

"And you are out of line, Soldier! Captain Treville will hear of this, be sure of that!"

He looked at Porthos' angry face to see if the man had understood, before turning to face the Comte. "I am sorry, Comte Vergy, about your stallions. Perhaps the King will offer some level of compensation or authorize a party to go after them later."

Aramis lost what little patience he had and before Jourdain could reply, he whipped his head around to glower at their leader. "You can't be that stupid as to believe that the Spaniards will simply let Athos go free. His knowledge of France is more valuable than any of those stallions."

"Watch yourself, Aramis, or I'll have you up on charges of insubordination when we get back," Roudon practically screamed at the marksman. Roudon's face grew redder as he continued to screech. "Athos' knowledge? Please. No one in their right mind would believe a person such as he would have any knowledge to impart. Perhaps, had they realized who I was and taken me, the story might be different. And, if musketeers are so valuable, why didn't they take all of us?" Roudon demanded with a sweep of his arms.

Knowing what he was doing was stupid, Aramis did it anyway and answered what he was sure was supposed to be a rhetorical question. "Taking six of the King's musketeers would be stupid and akin to starting a war. It would be perceived as a direct attack on the King."

Jourdain tried to play peacemaker between the warring musketeers. "Please, the loss of my stallions is nothing compared to the loss of Oli-Athos. Let Aramis and Porthos go after him. My grooms and I shall deliver the carriage horses to the King, personally," he announced, thinking it was a good compromise.

Roudon gave the Comte a small, somewhat condescending, smile. "Thank you, Comte Vergy, but that isn't the King's desire. He specifically ordered the musketeers to escort the new carriage horses to the Palace; armed men trained to fight. I applaud the bravery you are showing in offering to deliver the horses yourself, especially given your injury. However, as we have seen, your bloodstock is very valuable and would be a tempting target for thieves. No, the horses must be guarded by musketeers, who can guarantee their safe delivery to his Majesty. You are wounded. You need to rest and recover."

"We have to rescue Athos," Porthos restated, tired of the time being wasted in what he considered a stupid conversation with a stupid man.

Roudon strutted up and stood in front of Porthos. "We have a mission to complete, musketeer. We have to let the King and Treville know what the Spanish are up to and we need to deliver the horses. To do that quickly, we need to spilt up. If Athos is such a great musketeer, he will find a way to free himself and make it back to the garrison."

Growling, Porthos started to take a step forward as if he was going to hit Roudon, but Aramis' hand placed discretely on his arm kept him in check, barely. "Let me and Porthos go after Athos. After we get him, we will come back here, pick up the carriage horses, and deliver them to the King. A few more days will not make a difference," Aramis said, trying again to reason with Roudon. "Surely you don't want to risk Athos being killed."

Roudon turned away and walked across the dining room where they had been discussing their plans. "He is a musketeer. He knows the risks that come with the job. Mission first."

"If this were a critical mission, I would understand your position," Aramis tried to be diplomatic, but the edge to his voice wasn't helping. "But the delivery of carriage horses, that can be delayed without putting France at risk, verses a man's life..."

Roudon spun around and fiercely scowled at Aramis. "And that is why Captain Treville put me in charge of the mission. Because I can make the correct decisions."

Aramis lost the last hold on his temper as he stalked across the room, his voice sharp as a knife. "To leave a fellow musketeer behind to die needlessly? That is the right decision? Somehow, I think our good Captain would disagree with your analysis of this situation. We are going after Athos."

"Do that and it won't be just insubordination. I will see you are greeted with a court-martial when you return to the garrison. Both of you!" Roudon threatened as he glared first at Aramis and then Porthos. "And Athos too. He doesn't belong in the regiment. None of you do!"

"We'll risk it. We will rescue Athos and then bring the carriage horses safely to the Palace. And if the King or the Captain wishes to dismiss us for our actions, so be it. We will not leave Athos behind!" Porthos nodded as Aramis spoke, indicating his agreement with the words.

"Inseparables," Roudon spat with disgust. "Captain Treville showed extremely poor judgement in letting any of you into the regiment. The street rat, the libertine and the drunk. You make us a laughing stock. You need, you deserve, to be kicked out of the regiment. The whole ignoble lot of you."

Pierre and Francis, who had been quietly standing in the corner, stepped behind their leader in support.

"I command you to forget about rescuing Athos and to take the carriage horses to the Palace!" Roudon demanded, standing straight and tall and challenging Aramis and Porthos to defy him.

Porthos walked over and stood next to Aramis. "No," he quietly said.

"No," Aramis echoed in solidarity.

"So, you are defying my orders," Roudon stated, staring first at one then the other musketeer.

A little smile lifted the corners of Aramis mouth. "I prefer to think that we simply are delaying in following your orders."

The angry leader saw no humor in the situation. "Then I shall demand Captain Treville court-martial you, if you ever return to the garrison, with or without the King's horses," Roudon stated, meaning every single word he uttered.

"Do as you will. But we are going after Athos. And we will deliver the carriage horses too, just a little later than the King expects." Aramis said and, though a small smile was on his face, his voice was as cold as steel.

Roudon suddenly burst out laughing. "You do that. Makes it all that much easier for me to ensure Captain Treville gets rid of you and the rabble like you. Help bring the musketeers back the noble fighting force it was meant to be, not a home for common low-lives." With that, he stomped out of the dining room, with Pierre and Francis in tow, heading to the stable to prepare to leave for Paris.

"Well," Aramis remarked lightly as he turned and clapped a hand on Porthos' shoulder. "That went well, didn't it?"

"Man's an idiot," Porthos muttered under his breath.

"True. But he is the idiot that Captain Treville put in charge. And we are defying his direct orders."

"Are you saying we shouldn't go rescue Athos?" Porthos questioned, glaring at Aramis with disbelief.

"Of course not. I have put too much time and effort into straightening Athos out. And I'm not done yet," Aramis said facetiously, though his friendship for Athos shone through the glib remark.

"I'm worried too," Porthos muttered softly. "You know the Spanish aren't going to…"

Aramis cut him off not wanting to hear the end of that sentence. "We'll find him."

Jourdain, who was trying to process what was happening, blurted out, "Would you really be dismissed from the musketeers for going to save Athos? Surely a man's life, saving one of your own, is more important than the delivery of some horses," Jourdain declared as he let Aramis guide him to a divan to sit upon and rest his leg.

Porthos snorted as he moved across the room to look out the window at the other three musketeers, who had mounted and were riding away. "Only if you are up to their standards. Our commonness sullies the regiment." Suddenly realizing he was talking to a member of the nobility, Porthos ducked his head and apologized. "Sorry. Didn't mean anything personal."

"What Porthos is fumbling to say," Aramis explained as he moved to sit in a chair across from the divan, "is when the King first commissioned the Musketeers, the regiment was envisioned as a force comprised of the sons of the nobility, defending their King and country. A purpose for those who were not 'first-born'. Or first sons waiting to inherit. However, Captain Treville had other ideas and recruited men for their skills, not just their birth rank. He took in common soldiers, such as the two of us, whose names are not listed in the book of nobility."

Porthos moved from the window and dropped into the chair next to Aramis. He had formed a good opinion of this Comte during their short stay, so he was honest. "I was raised on the streets of Paris. My mother was once a slave and my father, well I have no idea who he was."

"So, you are the street rat to whom Roudon made reference," Jourdain said slowly, as he pieced together their roles, thinking back to his conversation with Athos in the barn.

"And I'm the libertine," Aramis chimed in. "My parents were simple people who always wanted me to join the church. But my love of God was equaled by my love of adventure and women, not exactly what one looks for in a parish priest. And yes, my mother was of Spanish descent."

"And Athos, he is the drunk?" Jourdain questioned carefully, remembering to use Olivier's new name. He wondered how much they really knew of their companion's past. Athos said he hadn't told them anything, but what had they guessed? The three seemed very close. "What of him?"

Porthos and Aramis looked at each other then laughed heartily.

Aramis started off rather cheerfully. "Athos is a man of mystery. It is obvious he is well-educated, but how he came about that, who knows. He has the speech patterns of a noble, but swears like a sailor. When he feels the need, he can lie as glibly as a Court-of-Miracle's con-artist. Best damn swordsman I have ever seen. A fine horseman. A natural leader, though he doesn't realize it. Straight as an arrow, until he isn't."

"Damn fine swordsman. Good with a knife too. Not a bad shot and I have been teaching him hand-to-hand," Porthos added with a touch of pride. "He's improved a lot. Learning the way of fighting that lets you survive, not just win a barroom brawl."

"But," Aramis continued, turning more reflective and somber. "There is something, in his past, that haunts him. Almost drives him to seek out atonement. Makes him reckless with his own well-being." Aramis and Porthos had not forgotten the occasional slip of Jourdain's tongue on Athos' name. "Perhaps you can help with that mystery? A few times you seemed to want to address him by another name than Athos," the marksman lightly accused the noble.

"Yes, I confess I have tripped over his name for Athos bears some resemblance to someone I once knew," Jourdain deflected with a hint of sorrow.

"And what happened to this friend, if I may ask?" Aramis inquired, realizing he was treading in murky waters.

Jourdain sighed and glanced towards the window. "I haven't seen him in years. You know nothing of Athos' background?"

"Not in so many words, but it doesn't matter. We all have secrets in our past. And his actions speak louder than his few words. I trust him with my life…"

"As do I," Porthos declared with loyalty.

Jourdain was happy to see that Athos had acquired such loyal friends in his new life, something that he knew the boy Olivier had struggled to find. It had troubled him, what Athos had said in the barn. But if he had loyal friends such as these two, maybe he could rise above the darkness that seemed to be eating his soul.

"Though, he is a bit moody…" Aramis declared with a twinkle in his eyes.

"…like his horse," Porthos added with a chuckle.

"But there is no one else I want fighting at my side besides him and Porthos. So, if we get court-martialed for saving him, well... it will have been for a good cause," Aramis concluded.

Something had been bothering him and Jourdain finally worked up the courage to ask. "The Spanish. Do you really think they will let Athos go when they reach the border?" He could see he had hit a nerve when Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other uneasily. "The truth. Please."

Aramis ran a hand through his wavy hair, buying time before he answered.

"We have already seen their faces. They have left you behind knowing you are musketeers and will tell the King what transpired here. What reason would they have not to let Athos go?" Jourdain asked, a hopeful look on his face.

"Because," Aramis said slowly, after glancing over at his friend once more, "he is a musketeer. One of the King's guards. Familiar with the palace, routines, tactics, plans…"

"Information that would be useful, if they plan to start a war with France. And," Porthos added ominously, "they won't be shy in how they ask him."

Jourdain leaned back on the divan and closed his eyes. How stupid and naive he was being. Of course, Athos, the musketeer, could be a valuable asset to the Spanish. And if Athos, the musketeer, was as stubborn as Olivier, the Comte de la Fére, he'd take those secrets to the grave, no matter how much they tortured him.

"Is there is anything I can do to help? All my resources are at your disposal. I could come along…"

"Thank you, but that wound on your leg would just slow us down. Better you stay here, recover," Aramis said kindly, knowing the man's heart was in the right place.

"When we find Athos, we'll come back here," Porthos promised him, refusing to use the word 'if.' "Now, we gotta get going. They already have a good head-start on us."

The two musketeers went to the barn and tacked up their horses while talking strategy on how to rescue Athos. Porthos was in favor of hunting them down, riding into their midst and taking Athos away by force until Aramis reminded him there were twenty Spaniards and only two of them. Next, they debated about sneaking into camp after dark to free their friend, but once again, the odds of making a clean get away were not in their favor.

Finally, Aramis came up with an idea, one that might work. With a last goodbye to Jourdain, they rode off down the lane. For Aramis' plan to work, time was of the essence.


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

Less than fifteen minutes after they had left Comte Vergy's estate, Athos regained consciousness, though his head ached abominably and when he tried to remember what had happened, his mind remained stubbornly blank. It concerned him that he couldn't recall how he had been rendered unconscious. Unfortunately, Athos remembered exactly who Anton was, that part of his memory was still intact. But on other things his mind remained mulishly fuzzy.

It was an odd feeling to wake and find oneself on a moving horse. Once, when he had been injured, he had woken riding double with Porthos, the strong man's arms holding him securely in place. But Athos could never recall waking up alone on a horse. The ropes that they used to secure him to his horse and saddle were tight enough that he was in no danger of falling off. Still, it was an unsettling experience.

Thinking about his experiences on horseback under odd conditions, his mind wandered back to one of the riding instructors he had as a young man. Jacob. The man had been a soldier, an officer, who had been wounded severely enough to end his career. However, his injuries did not affect his ability to ride and teach, something at which the officer excelled. Athos' father had hired him to work with his sons, figuring an ex-solider, especially an officer, would instill discipline in his sons. Olivier and Thomas had both learned to become accomplished horsemen under Jacob's tutelage, but it was the older brother who had surpassed the instructor's expectations. Jacob found the elder son was a naturally gifted horseman and had pushed Olivier harder, challenging him and watching the boy flourish.

Their lessons began to branch out from horsemanship also to the art of soldiering, which the Comte de la Fére had tolerated until it became clear his oldest son had become too enamored with the subject to the determent of his other studies. The father and son had fought, though it was a one-sided battle as the boy Olivier had no power, and the instructor was sent packing without so much as a reference for his next position.

Recently, Athos the musketeer had come across his old riding instructor in Paris. Athos didn't know his ex-instructor's life story since he was fired by the Comte, but it was obvious he had fallen upon hard times, at least of late. The man was serving as a stable-hand at an establishment in an unsavory section of Paris. The stable rented broken-down nags to low-income patrons who found themselves in need of transportation. Many of the renters could barely ride, though the horses were so worn down it really didn't matter. In an odd way, they suited each other.

He, Aramis and Porthos had been chasing a thief through the streets of Paris when the man had ducked into the stable, a poor choice. Aramis and Athos had followed him in the front while Porthos circled around the back. They had trapped the thief between them and after he was apprehended, Porthos dragged him back outside. As Athos was departing the stable, gazing sadly upon the condition of the horses, he had spotted Jacob in one of the stalls. Their eyes had met, but recognition was only one-sided and only because of the unique scar that marked the ex-soldier. Had it not been for the disfigurement, Athos wouldn't have recognized the man in his disheveled, beaten down state. And Jacob certainly would not recognize Athos the musketeer as the boy Olivier. Athos had continued out of the stable without stopping, but the memory of what he saw had stayed with him. And as he rode along now, he pondered once again, the fate of Jacob and his role in it. Athos knew his father had fired Jacob because of his own behavior. Had he simply been content with learning what Jacob had to offer on riding and not pestered him about soldiering, his father would not have fired the instructor. Then perhaps Jacob would not have ended up working in a dilapidated stable. The weight of another life he perceived he had ruined fell upon Athos' shoulders as they rode along

The Spaniards moved swiftly throughout the day, stopping only briefly to water and rest the horses. When they halted for breaks, Athos was left tied on his horse and by the end of the day his headache, his bladder and his thirst were competing for the top spot on his list of miseries. He still couldn't remember what happened between the time he was tied to his horse and the time he awoke. The more he tried to recall the worse his head pounded, so for the time being, he willed himself to let it go. His memory would either come back on its own, or it wouldn't, but forcing himself to try to remember was only making a bad situation worse.

That night when they stopped to set up camp, he was brutally dragged from Roger's back, landing in a heap on the ground because he didn't have time to get his numb legs and feet under him. Showing no mercy, the soldiers dragged him to a nearby tree. They untied him momentarily, letting him relieve himself, though privacy was not an option. When he was done, they secured his torso to the trunk. Then they tied his legs together. His arms were bound in front of him, but they did leave his hands and wrists with a little movement. Once he was trussed up like a pig on a spit, he was left alone.

Dinner was served to the soldiers in the camp. After the men had been fed, Anton picked up a cup of water and bowl of food and wandered over to where Athos was secured to the tree.

"So, your name is Athos?" Anton started the conversation with the musketeer, who sat there and simply stared at him, obviously not planning to reply. "Come now. You already said that was your name. It is no secret." He set the bowl and cup in Athos' line of sight, but out of reach of the musketeer, before perching on a nearby rock.

Athos remained silent, his green eyes coolly staring at the man as if he were a servant of no importance.

"So far, this is not much of a conversation, Athos. If you are civil to me, perhaps I can be civil to you. Are you hungry? Or thirsty? I have both food and water here as you can see. And to get it, you simply need to answer my questions."

Athos refused to look at the bowl and cup that the Spaniard had nudged closer to him. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the forest as if he were totally alone.

Anton drew his knife from its holder, then a whetstone from a pouch and began to sharpen the edge of his blade. "You know, Athos the musketeer, I believe my superiors will be quite pleased that not only have I returned with the stallions, but also with an enemy spy."

"I am no spy, Monsieur," Athos said drolly, finally reacting. "You kidnapped me. A citizen of France."

"Kidnapped? Trust me, my leaders will not care how you came to be in Spain, just that you are. So, let's start with an easy question, shall we? There was a battle. Not far from the border. Were you there, Athos the musketeer?"

Silently, Athos contemplated what to reveal to this man. It was going to be a fine line he walked between satisfying the Spaniard, so he kept him alive, and not providing any information of real value. Athos would die for his country, if that is what was called for, but he also wasn't averse to being alive should there be a rescue attempt. The swordsman decided there was no harm in answering this question. "I was," he stated in his usual taciturn manner.

The noise of the whetstone grinding against the edge of the steel was the only sound for a few minutes as Anton focused on the task at hand. Eventually, when one side of the blade was done, Anton raised his head and asked, "And who won?"

In a tone that suggested the question was dumb because there could only be one answer, Athos replied, "France."

"I see," Anton said evenly as he dropped his head to study his blade once more. "Pity. That will anger my superiors. It is not good when your taskmasters are upset. Did we at least kill many of your men?"

"No. Not even a handful. You had the numbers, but not," Athos made a derisive sound, "the skills, brains or talent to win."

In a flash, Athos found Anton's freshly honed blade pressed menacingly to his throat. "Do not mock Spain."

Steady as a rock, Athos sat there as if he were on a Sunday picnic, not tied to a tree with a dangerously sharp knife pressing against the tender flesh of his throat. "I don't mock, Monsieur. I am simply stating fact. You had greater numbers and yet you lost. I was merely speculating as to the causes of Spain's…failure."

Like a striking cobra, Anton rapidly slashed his blade through the musketeer's linen shirt leaving a laceration across Athos' left bicep. The swordsman's shirt grew damp from the blood welling from the gash. "Let's not speculate any more, shall we?" Anton suggested. Satisfied he had made his point, he wiped the stained blade on Athos' pants before resuming his seat and picking up the stone he had discarded. The sound of grinding filled the night once more.

"You must be very thirsty after your long ride today. Would you like this cup of water? The price is very reasonable. As a King's musketeer, you must be very familiar with the royal Palace," Anton suggested moving on to his new line of questioning.

"No. Not really. I get lost. It is a very large…confusing place," Athos said in a tone that bordered on being insolent.

"I see," Anton said in a tone that indicated he didn't. "But as a musketeer, you have met the King. Conversed with him."

"Conversed?" Athos gave a little laugh. "I don't know how the Spanish guard their King, but we are little more than statues that can move. We are ignored and certainly do not converse with the King."

"Yet you are near your King. You see and hear things. Things of importance. Tell me," Anton needled, "is he really the boy-King that they say? A child feigning to be a man. Under the thumb of the Cardinal Richelieu. A glorified puppet."

"He is King. Of France. A powerful country that thwarts Spain's invasion," Athos answered in an assured manner.

The Spaniard's face turned red, but he maintained his composure. "You have given me nothing yet to earn the water, so let's talk about the garrison. I'm sure you know about it. How many musketeers reside within its walls?" Anton queried, moving on to his new set of questions.

"Too many if you ask me," Athos declared sadly shaking his head even though it made his headache worse. "Always crowded. A man can't hear himself think."

Picking up the cup of water, the Spanish captain pressed, "How many musketeers?"

Athos shrugged, then looked away. "I am but a common soldier who was drafted into the musketeers because I am good with a sword. I can't read, write or count high enough to tell you how many men. Just…many."

Anton smiled as he brought the cup of water closer to Athos, then tipped it so it spilled onto the ground. "Please, Athos. I do not think you are as dumb as you claim to be." He tossed the cup aside and picked up his newly sharpened dagger once more.

Athos stared Anton. "Even an idiot, if raised in the right environment, can learn to appear intelligent."

Anton had the distinct feeling he'd just been insulted and he stared into those fathomless green eyes searching for duplicity, but he couldn't find it. "What of that black beast you ride? Other than his temperament, he is of very good breeding. How is it a common soldier can afford him?"

"I won him. In a card game. Though, given his temper, perhaps I was not the real winner." Again, the musketeer gave a little shrug. "But, as I have said, I am not the sharpest of blades. After all, I did get captured... by you"

Anton had the feeling he had been insulted once more. His brown eyes narrowed as he spoke. "You know what I think. Musketeer Athos? I think you are very clever indeed and are trying to play me for the fool."

"You may think what you like, Monsieur," Athos returned in a voice that clearly indicted he thought Anton was right in his assumptions. "When you take me before your superiors and claim I have all sorts of valuable intelligence, we will see who is the real fool."

"You believe you can withstand torture designed to get you to talk? Because if that is the case, then you are indeed a fool, Athos." Shoving his blade into its sheath, Anton rose and stood staring down at the trussed man. "But as you said, time will tell which one of us is the fool."

With that, Anton kicked over the bowl of food, turned on his heel and walked away. Athos wasn't sure if what he did was smart or dumb, but he did learn two things. One, he wasn't going to be let free at the border, not that he ever really believed that was true. And two, Anton was not an adversary to take lightly.


	18. Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

Athos spent his second day of captivity much like his first, securely tied to Roger's back, thirsty, hungry and sore. Passing the night tied to a tree had done nothing but aggravated his numerous aches and pains from the beating at the horse farm. Only the pounding in his head had lessened a little, for which he was grateful. His arm had stopped bleeding from the slash, though it still stung and he suspected too much movement might open the wound again.

Last night he had only slept in short snatches, so brief that even his nightmares couldn't get started, a blessing in disguise he supposed. Still when it came time to settle into his saddle for another day's ride, he couldn't keep a groan from escaping his lips.

"You seem not so tough for a King's musketeer," Anton, who was standing by supervising, mocked him.

"Untie me and give me a sword and we will see who is tough," Athos haughtily shot back.

The Spanish captain gave him a lazy smile. "While that is most tempting for it would be enjoyable to teach you a lesson, I fear if I hurt you, and I would, my superiors would be displeased. Dead men tell no secrets, only tortured ones."

Laughing, at his own wit, the Spanish captain rode off to ensure the ten stolen stallions were ready to move out. Shortly thereafter, the group was underway once more.

The second day went much like the one before, little rest breaks, but mostly steady movement. Athos was vaguely familiar with this area from his association with Jourdain and maps he'd seen of the locale. He and Jourdain had more than once searched these lands when one of his father's horses had escaped. They had also hunted these grounds. Because the estate was within a few days ride of the Spanish border, Comte Vergy had made sure his son and his guests knew where the border was for safety sake. There wasn't a wall or guard stations marking the border and many would dispute where the true line lay, but still, it paid not to be caught too deep into perceived foreign territory

The swordsman had been scanning the area as they rode and judging by the landmarks he recalled, such as the stream they had just stopped by at noon, that when they stopped for the night, they were a day's ride from the border.

That night, once again he was tied to a tree. One of the soldiers did come by and give him a cup of water which Athos eagerly took, forcing himself to drink it slowly. It felt wonderful sliding down his parched throat though it only slightly slaked his thirst. He knew he was given the water not out of kindness, but necessity, for he had to be alive in order to tell the secrets they thought he possessed.

Like the previous night, Anton stopped by for what seemed was becoming their ritual nightly chat. Again, he brought a filled cup and bowl that he placed on the ground just out of Athos' reach.

"Did you have a nice ride today, Musketeer Athos?" This evening, the Spanish captain used his knife to whittle a branch. "Do you find it humiliating being tied to your horse?"

Lack of food, water and sleep was affecting Athos' common sense. "No more so than talking to you," Athos replied, though he regretted the words the moment they left his mouth.

As expected, Anton didn't like the sass. He lashed out with the stick in his hand and smacked Athos across the face. "Do not be insolent with me or next time I shall beat you with something more painful than a tree branch. Do not count on the fact I need you alive, for there are many degrees of living where you can be in tremendous pain, but still able to talk."

Trying to behave in a more strategic manner, Athos dropped his eyes to the ground and didn't challenge the Spaniard any further. It served no purpose at this point, other than to feed his own foolish pride. Better to lay low for a while and strike when it gained him some sort of an advantage.

Anton resettled himself on the ground and smiled when he saw Athos drop his gaze in a subservient manner. Progress. Now for a few more questions.

"What rank are you in the musketeers?" he asked, thinking he had at least captured an officer. Anton had spent enough time in France, as a spy, to learn the language well and he detected a sophistication in this man's speech as well as his mannerisms.

Keeping his head down, Athos answered, "I am no one. A common man. I have been a musketeer for only a few months."

"Somehow, I don't know that I believe that. I spent many years as a spy in France. I infiltrated and associated with many of France's nobility. I am not unfamiliar with their mannerism and customs, many of which you, Athos, display. Also, the King's _elite_ musketeers are supposed to be composed of the sons of the nobility not commoners."

Inwardly, Athos berated himself for it was not the first time his upbringing had been detected in his speech patterns. It was one of the reasons, besides his basic nature, he was often taciturn, for when he opened his mouth, he told more of his personal story then he wanted known. His father would be proud, he supposed, that all those years spent beating him into being a Comte hadn't been wasted.

"You are indeed clever and have a good ear for I have been around nobility," Athos confessed, "And I suppose it has rubbed off on me. I am the bastard son of a lowly Baron who had a dalliance with a maid. I was allowed to stay in the household, as a servant, and was offered a few lessons that allowed me to pass myself off as a person above my station. However, when the Baron died and the Baroness remarried, I was ejected from the household as no one wants bastard sons lying about. I used my knowledge of the nobility to pose as the third son of a rather far away and out of favor noble family fallen on hard times. I am somewhat skilled with a sword and so, I became a musketeer."

Anton, who had stopped carving on the stick as he had listened to Athos' tale, once again began shaving strips of wood off the branch as he digested what he'd been told. What if this man was telling the truth and knew nothing of value? His mission had only been to steal the stallions. If this provoked an incident with France his superiors would be very unhappy.

Then it dawned on him. The Comte of the estate. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage. When they were taking their leave, he had shot at the man, but purposely had not hit him. However, out of this group, he was the only one that knew it had been a ruse. He had done it for many reasons. It bolstered his image with his men. It had shown that he was not afraid to use force. He was sure the captives in the house were scared upon hearing the noise, fearfully wondering who had been shot and if they were still alive. And Athos had reacted violently to the Comte being shot, almost as if he personally knew the man. Perhaps that was something Anton could now use to his advantage against the stubborn musketeer.

"You seemed to know the Comte who bred the horses," Anton idly suggested to Athos. "Perhaps he was an acquaintance? A friend?"

Athos wasn't sure where this conversation was going so he kept his head lowered and stared at his tied hands.

"It was a shame I had to kill the Comte," Anton lied, hiding the smile that wanted to appear on his face when Athos slowly raised his head to stare at him. "Did you not know he was dead?" Anton scratched his chin, then grinned. "Perhaps not, since my man knocked you out. I can assure you he is… dead. I am a very good shot."

The soldier took the stick he'd been carving and tested the point he had made with the tip of his finger. "Sharp," he vaguely noted after sucking the drop of blood off his finger. "The horse breeder, you understand he had to die, because of your disobedience."

Athos did his best to hide the fact this news shocked him. Jourdain was dead? He tried to force his concussion-muddled mind to recall what had happened at the estate when they were leaving. Incomplete images flashed through his mind leaving him even more unsettled. He thought, perhaps, he did recall Jourdain being shot.

Slowly, Anton rose to his feet and Athos' guarded green eyes followed him. "I wonder what your Captain would think? I know," Anton stated as he casually twirled the stick between his fingers, "if it were my man causing an innocent person, and nobility at that, to be killed, I would not be pleased."

Guilt cut through Athos' soul like a well-honed sword. Once again, his actions had caused harm to someone else. His stomach twisted in a knot and he couldn't keep the distress from momentarily showing in his eyes.

Anton looked into the eyes of his captive and for the first time saw something other than defiance; he saw a flash of uncertainty. Perhaps this man could be broken with the right tools.

"I hope," Anton stated menacingly as he took a step closer to Athos, "none of your musketeer friends come after you for if they do…" Anton took the pointed stick and without warning, stabbed it deeply into Athos' right hand. "…I will be forced to deal harshly with them too."

Turning on his heel, Anton strode away leaving Athos biting the inside of his cheek so as not to scream out in pain as obscenities flowed through his mind. The musketeer laid his head back against the tree trunk to which he was secured and closed his eyes, taking measured breaths to ease the pain in his hand, the sick feeling in his stomach . . . and his temper.

When he felt he was somewhat in control, he slowly opened his eyes and gazed upon the stick protruding from his right palm. It hadn't completely pieced his hand for it had not come out the other side. He wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

His arms had been tied more loosely tonight giving him some limited range of motion. There was only one way he could think to remove the pointed stick from his hand, and he did want it removed, immediately. Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve, the swordsman grabbed the stick with his left hand and before he lost his nerve, he jerked it cleanly out. With a muffled cry, he dropped the stick in the grass, then bit down on his lower lip to halt the further screams his throat was trying so desperately to release.

Blood welled out of the wound, ran off his hand and dripped into the grass. Controlling his breathing once more, Athos worked through the pain, dampening it enough so that he could think. The cup that Anton had left behind was, with a bit of a stretch, within the range of his left foot. Carefully, he pointed the toe of his boot and attempted to nudge the metal object closer to him. Luckily, the ground was fairly smooth and for the next few minutes, between the waves of pain, he cautiously prodded the cup closer. However, it got to a point where he could no longer move it along with his boot, so with reluctance, he picked up the stick that had been impaled in his hand and used that to move the cup up the side of his leg until he could grasp it with his left hand.

Before he attempted to raise the cup from the ground, he took a break, dropping the stick and leaning his head back against the tree once more. It would be very easy to close his eyes and let the black curtain that was trying to envelope his brain win. But that wouldn't solve anything and he might wake and find the cup gone. Even in the little time he had known Aramis, the medic-musketeer had managed to impress upon him the importance of taking care of wounds. Pouring the water over it to flush it out would be the right thing to do, though his thirst was warring with the idea of not drinking the water. A compromise, Athos decided, as he raised his head. A few sips of water and the rest poured over the wound. He picked up the cup and set about his task.

When it was all over, Athos let the cup slide out of his hand and into the grass. He probably could bring the bowl of food close enough using the same methodology, but he was too tired to try. Instead, he closed his eyes once more and leaned his head back against the tree.

He finally allowed himself to dwell upon what the Spanish captain had told him. Jourdain was dead. And he, Athos, had been responsible for his death. Worse, if Aramis and Porthos came to rescue him, he might get them killed too. The black cloud that was his life was once again settling over those around him.


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

"Captain Treville! There are riders approaching. Fast!" the musketeer who had been on point for the caravan of soldiers shouted as he rode up to Treville.

"What now," Treville groused under his breath. The journey from the battlefield back towards the garrison had been one delay after another. Broken wheels, broken axles, lame horses, you name it, it had happened. They had begun to measure progress in feet not miles. Gesturing, he had four of his best marksmen accompany him to the head of the column. The four musketeers drew their weapons and pointed them down the road while the Captain kept his own pistol sideways across his lap. A few tense moments passed before the riders came into view.

"Aramis? Porthos? Are you lost?" the Captain blurted out in surprise when he saw the two musketeers.

"One might ask you the same question, Captain," Aramis teased as he drew to a halt near his leader. "You haven't gotten very far in two days. Did you forget the way back to the garrison?"

The look on the Captain's face said it all. He was not amused. "Anything that could break, has broken and slowed down our progress considerably. But why are you here? Where are the rest of the men?"

Quickly, Aramis laid out what had transpired at Comte Vergy's estate.

"So Roudon, Pierre and Francis are on their way to Paris so they can let the King know what has occurred," Treville confirmed thoughtfully.

Aramis nodded. "Well, the King and you for he expected you would be back at the garrison by the time he arrived," the marksman added with a small shrug.

"So, did I," Treville declared ruefully. "So, the King's carriage horses are still at the estate, Athos has been taken hostage by the Spaniards and you two are here," he said summing it up. "How can you three get into so much trouble so quickly?"

"How is this our fault? If anyone it is that stupid Roudon," Porthos bristled even as Aramis reached across and jabbed him in the arm. "Sorry, Captain" Porthos mumbled by way of an apology. The big man wasn't being disrespectful, he was just worried for Athos.

"No. It is not your fault. I shouldn't have said that," Treville apologized. "It was nothing more than my frustration at the rotten luck we have had on this journey home."

"Well," Aramis said with a lazy grin. "We are not so dumb as to realize we don't occasionally cause you issues. But you have to admit, overall we really are quite lovable."

Captain Treville couldn't quite keep the small smile off his face at Aramis' cheeky comment. Trying at least to keep his voice professional even if his face was not, he asked, "I assume you came to find us for a reason."

Now it was Aramis' turn to grow serious. "We did. First, let me say that Porthos and I are here without the knowledge and against the express orders of Roudon."

"Somehow," Treville remarked as he removed his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair, "that doesn't surprise me."

"Roudon made it very clear we weren't supposed to try to rescue Athos. That it was more important," Porthos spat, "to deliver the King's horses than to save one of our own."

"To be fair. The captain of the Spaniards did say he wouldn't harm Athos if no one tried to follow. That Athos would be set free at the border," Aramis reminded Porthos, though he was really reiterating that fact for Treville's benefit.

"It seems strange that Roudon wasn't more concerned about the value of a captured musketeer," Treville wondered aloud before adding, "Though the King is also a force to be reckoned with when he perceives his commands have not been followed to the letter." For a moment, Treville quietly contemplated his Lieutenant's behavior. He knew Roudon didn't care for the non-nobles brought into the regiment. But the man couldn't be so unscrupulous as to deliberately not rescue Athos just because he thought he was a commoner.

Porthos summed it up. "We couldn't let Athos die because of Roudon's stupidity."

"Aramis, since you specifically sought me out, I take it you have a plan?" Treville asked shifting his gaze to the marksman.

"Indeed, I do."


	20. Chapter 20

NOTE: Sorry. Major work issue and back-to-back 20 hour days. Missed the posting. Two today to make up.

CHAPTER 20

Day three found Athos in the familiar position of being tied to Roger's back once more. Before mounting, Anton had allowed him a few moments of freedom, enough so Athos could rip a piece of material off the bottom of his shirt and fasten a crude bandage around his injured right hand. After he was finished with his rudimentary medical ministrations, he had been trussed up like a Noël goose on Roger's back once more. Roger had taken this new riding arrangement in stride and stood quietly as they ran the ropes under his belly. The only concession made for today's ride was Athos' hands were tied in front of him. Athos wasn't sure why, perhaps in deference to his injuries, but for whatever reason, he was grateful.

As they rode along, Athos scanned the countryside and, based on his knowledge of the area, judged they were less than a day's ride from the Spanish border. His headache had scaled back to a dullness that was probably just as much due to lack of food as anything else. His hand, however, was a different story. It throbbed when he jolted it, which, given his riding position, seemed to happen more frequently than he'd wish. He couldn't seem to find a position where it didn't get jostled by the movement of his horse. The cuts on his side, face and bicep had scabbed over and weren't giving him any trouble at the moment. His ribs were sore, but he'd had worse from falls off horses as he grew up.

Late in the afternoon, the soldiers stopped to rest the horses once again. In the past two days, they had set up camp for the night at about this time. But today, Anton showed no indication that he planned to stop for anything other than a rest break. The soldiers did unpack a few items to make some food for themselves. Athos decided that since they were close, the Spaniard was going to make a final push for the border. As was the norm, he wasn't freed from Roger's back and was forced to sit there, sore, hungry and thirsty while the others took their break and stretched their legs.

As Athos sat on Roger watching the soldiers eating, he noticed that the herd of stallions was behaving in a restless manner. It started with them flicking their ears back and forth as if they heard something. Next, some of them started to raise their heads, as if smelling something on the breeze. A few were gazing off into the distance, giving every sign that they expected to see something approaching. Glancing at Roger's head, the saw the black stallion's ears were also pitched forward as the animal stared off into the distance.

The area in which they stopped for a break was a fair-sized clearing, though there were scattered rock outcroppings and trees, so visibility was limited. There was a stiff breeze whistling through the trees and the leaves were making a rustling sound. Athos shifted in the saddle trying unobtrusively to look around the grove. He wasn't sure why, but he had a distinct feeling they weren't the only people in the area.

He and the horses must not have been the only ones whose nerves were on edge because Anton raised his eyes from the plate of food he was eating to scan the vicinity. With a frown, he handed his dish to the soldier next to him and walked a few feet towards the stallions who were beginning to mill about. After a moment of contemplation, he turned decisively and issued orders to two men who immediately ran to their horses, mounted and rode off.

Turning, Anton barked out more commands and the soldiers began scurrying about cleaning up the items they had taken out to prepare the food and stowing them. Anton had his horse brought to him and motioned for three other soldiers to mount, one who grabbed Roger's reins and drew him over to the small group where Anton sat on his horse, waiting.

In the distance, the sound of musket fire split the air. Cursing, Anton issued orders to the rest of the men, then he wheeled his mount and took off at a run with the three other soldiers following, including the one who was holding Roger's reins.

As the five men disappeared up the trail, chaos broke out in the clearing. Ten musketeers burst into the area and a second volley of gunfire took place. The musketeers overpowered the surprised soldiers and in less than fifteen minutes the Spanish had been subdued. When order was finally restored, the musketeers were in possession of the stallions and the fifteen remaining Spanish soldiers were on the ground, dead, wounded or kneeling in submission. It didn't take Aramis and Porthos long to discovered Athos was not amongst them.

Porthos used a little more force than necessary to drop the soldier he had been holding onto the ground. "Where is he?" the frustrated streetfighter shouted when he was unable to find any sign of this friend.

Aramis turned to one of the kneeling soldiers and started questioning him in Spanish. The man must not have given the right answer because Aramis reached out and backhanded the man across his cheek before barking out his questions again. This time the soldier must have responded in a better manner, though it was quite clear that Aramis was not happy with the reply.

Aramis straightened and turned to face his friend. "The leader and three others headed out as we came into camp. They took Athos with them. They are probably running for the border."

"I don't care if we have to chase them into the very capital of Spain. We are not abandoning Athos," Porthos declared firmly.

"Of course not." Aramis agreed before he turned and issued some commands to a nearby musketeer. When he was done, he rejoined Porthos. "DuPort will take charge here and you and I, my friend, are going to Spain."


	21. Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

The Spanish soldiers, with their prisoner in tow, cantered on the twisting path away from the fight between the remaining soldiers and the musketeers. As the track wound through the craggy landscape, the sides of the trail grew steeper as the path entered into a ravine. All five riders were listening for sounds of pursuit, four with fear and one with hope.

Athos had been simultaneously relieved and alarmed to see Aramis, Porthos and the other musketeers burst into the soldiers' camp. While it meant there was a chance he might be rescued, it also meant his brethren were putting themselves in danger because of him. He could see that Anton was getting more frantic by the moment as his plans fell apart and that made a dangerous man even more so. There was no telling what the Spaniard might do if cornered. Anton had already shown he wasn't opposed to killing people when he shot Jourdain. Another wave of guilt washed over Athos' conscience when Jourdain crossed his mind once more. He had to escape and bring Anton to justice, if only to avenge his friend.

He remained constantly vigilant for an avenue of escape, but with his hands tied and his feet secured under Roger's belly, no opportunities had presented themselves. He needed some way to free himself of the ropes binding him and that meant getting his hands on a sharp object.

Anton glanced over his shoulder once more looking for signs of pursuit. He wasn't stupid and knew if the musketeers won the battle, which he surmised they would, given their element of surprise, it wouldn't take them long to realize he was gone, along with their friend. Then it was only a matter of time before one of his men babbled where he had gone. Time was not on his side, though he knew he could only push the horses so hard on the rocky, twisting path if he didn't want them to go lame.

The trail was winding through a gorge with deeply angled slopes comprising its sides. The terrain was a composite of dirt, boulders and scrub trees. It dawned on Anton this was a perfect place to set up an ambush. A person hidden on those slopes could easily take out anyone on the trail below. Signaling the soldier leading Roger to continue onward, Anton motioned for the other two to stop alongside of him.

Athos had been privately thinking the same thing as Anton about the location being ideal for an ambush. When he saw Anton and the other two stopping, his heart lurched in his chest. He signaled Roger to stop too, but the soldier leading him yanked the reins, forcing the stallion to keep moving forward. The horse threw his head up in protest, but continued to follow the soldier.

Quickly explaining to his men what he wanted, Anton watched as they dismounted and hid their horses around a bend in the trail so they were out of sight. Carrying their pistols, they scaled the sides of the ravine until they found good cover. Once they were in place, Anton wheeled his horse around and headed up the trail to catch up to his remaining man and the musketeer. For the first time since he fled the camp, Anton was feeling he still might have a chance to salvage this operation.

Athos was thinking the same thing as Anton because he finally saw an opportunity to escape. While Anton was plotting his ambush, Athos was scheming one of his own. Using his legs, he urged Roger to move closer to the soldier's horse until they were practically touching. From this position, Athos could see the main-gauche in the back of the soldier's weapons belt. He needed to get his hands on that weapon and with them now tied in front of him it might just work. After Anton had stabbed his hand, he had convinced the Spanish Captain to allow his hands to be tied in front of him so, his plan had a chance of being successful.

Surreptitiously, Athos gave Roger the signal for a maneuver they had been working on for use in battle. Receiving the instruction, the black stallion brusquely threw his entire body weight against the other, unsuspecting, horse. Simultaneously, Athos desperately reached across the gap trying to seize the dagger in the soldier's belt. His fingers got purchase on the handle and the blade slipped free as the soldier's horse stumbled to his knees under Roger's relentless assault. The soldier, caught totally unawares, was tossed from the saddle onto the ground where he lay in a still heap. His horse managed to climb back to his feet but, when he did, Roger rushed the gelding again, teeth barred. The animal got the message and frantically moved away.

Having the dagger in hand, Athos indicated to Roger to stand quietly and the animal obeyed. Awkwardly, the swordsman turned the dagger around in his hands until the blade lay against the ropes binding his wrists. Hoping the soldier kept his blade sharp, Athos got his answer when the edge not only began slicing neatly through the ropes, but also nicked his wrist, causing a bead of blood to well up. Once his hands were free, he turned the blade on the rope securing his legs and soon he was totally released from his bindings.

Dismounting, he cautiously walked over to the still Spaniard, dagger ready. When he got close enough, he could see the man had broken his neck in the fall. Athos tucked the dagger into the waistband of his pants. In deference to his stiff limbs, he slowly bent over and retrieved the sword from the dead man. With the blade in his left hand, he gave it a few practice thrusts, forcing his back and shoulder to loosen and move more freely. The slashes on his side and his bicep let it be known they weren't pleased with this activity. Straightening, he tried to transfer the sword to his right hand, but the pain and stiffness from the wound as he tried to close his hand on the hilt was too much and he let out a groan. If it came to a battle, he'd be fighting with his non-dominant hand and he'd have to pray his wounds didn't hamper him.

Returning the sword to his left hand, he made his way back over to Roger and mounted. He stowed the sword somewhat awkwardly in his musket holder since he didn't have a weapons belt and it would have taken too long to get the Spaniard's. It was not the best fit, but it would have to do as he thought the dagger was a better choice at the moment. He could throw it from a distance at a target.

Gingerly gathering up the reins in his injured right hand, he was happy Roger could be controlled by means other than solely from the reins. After retrieving the main-gauche with his left hand, he turned Roger around. Now that he was free and armed, he had to thwart Anton's ambush. He couldn't let his friends be hurt. At Athos' urging, Roger started down the path, gathering speed with each stride. Rounding a bend, Athos nearly crashed into Anton's horse coming from the other direction.

Athos tried to direct Roger around the Spaniard, however, Anton drew his gun and pointed it at Athos. "Stop!"

The musketeer drew to a halt, figuring that Anton wouldn't hesitate to shot him in the back if he kept going. Dead, he would be of no use to his friends.

An insidious smile lit up the Spaniard's face as he kept his pistol trained on Athos. "Going somewhere?"


	22. Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

Porthos and Aramis pushed their horses harder than they ever had before and the noble steeds answered the call. The well-conditioned horses flew down the trail, swiftly closing the gap between themselves and the Spanish soldiers. Time was of the essence and the musketeers feared the Spaniards, already having lost the stallions, might decide to kill Athos and simply disappear into Spain.

Porthos, who was in the lead, was scanning the trail in front of them as they rode along. Abruptly, he yanked his horse to a stop almost causing Aramis and Fidget to run into him.

"Why are you stopping!" Aramis barked as he fought to get his horse under control. The animal was clearly not happy at this unexpected stop which nearly caused a collision with her stablemate's rump.

"Ahead. Where the trail enters into that ravine. Perfect spot for an ambush," Porthos explained as he methodically continued to scan the road ahead. "With that curve, we will be going in blind. Someone on the slopes, with a gun, and we're as good as dead."

Aramis looked at where Porthos was indicating. "You're right. We'll be sitting ducks if there is a skilled marksman around that bend, or even a bad one. Can we go around?"

Porthos shook his head. "No quick way around. And if we lose them, Athos is as good as dead."

Aramis nodded in agreement as his mind whirled trying to come up with plan. It wasn't fear that stopped them from simply taking their chances and riding straight through the ravine. But if one or both of them were shot that would also seal Athos' fate. If the Spanish soldiers were lying in wait for them, they had to draw them out. Frustrated, Aramis circled his horse trying to find a solution for this dilemma.

They needed a way to hide in plain sight which indeed would be a good trick. Trick. Suddenly, it hit him. Aramis recalled something he had seen when he was on guard-duty at the Palace. It was a long shot, but it might work and he had no better idea.

Turning to face Porthos he declared, "I have a plan. Dismount and tighten your girth."

-MMMM-

The soldiers on the slopes of the ravine peered intently at the trail below, anxiously waiting for their targets to appear. When they heard the hoof beats, both men rose slightly and sighted down the barrel of their muskets. When the two horses came into view, walking abreast of each other, the men blew on their fuses and began slowly to squeeze the trigger. However, just before they engaged the firing pin, they stopped, realizing they had no target. The two horses were rider-less!

Had the soldiers chosen to keep a low profile, they might have lived. But both stood up to get a better view of what was going on below, and that sealed their fate. Two gunshots rang out and the soldiers dropped neatly to the ground. Gravity rolled them down the slopes, bouncing them off rocks and trees, until they sprawled to a stop on the track below. Neither one moved, the bullets and the terrain ensuring they were no longer a threat.

After a second, with a grunt, Porthos landed on his back on the ground between Fidget and Flip joining the two dead soldiers on the road. The horses flicked their ears in his direction, but otherwise remained motionless.

"Damn. That was hard. It takes a hell of a lot of strength to hold yourself hidden like that, gripping the stirrups and the saddles," he groused as he lay there staring up at the underbellies of the two horses.

Aramis' voice floated in the air. "That's why I had you to tighten the horses' girths. Wouldn't want the saddles to slip sideways and you get kicked in the head by a stray hoof."

"Wonderful. My arms and legs feel like I've been wrestling a bear," Porthos complained, stretching his sore muscles as he lay prone on the ground.

Aramis, who had been crouched behind the animals using them to shield him from the soldiers' view, straightened his back as he grinned down at the complaining man. "That, my friend, is why you did it. You're the strong one and I'm the good-looking marksman with whom all the ladies fall in love. We each have our role to play." The marksman clipped the two now empty pistols to his belt.

Climbing to his feet as he brushed dirt and twigs off his clothes, Porthos sarcastically quipped, "Good shooter, yes. Good looking, no. Big mouth for talking women into bed, yes."

Aramis tut-tutted at his friend as he held a hand in mock horror over his wounded heart. "Surely you think better of me than that, Porthos."

"Not at the moment," the streetfighter answered as he rubbed his bruised elbow. "Where did you see that trick?"

"At the Palace. I was standing guard as the King watched a troop of equestrians from the Duchy of Bavaria, I believe. Those riders did all sorts of amazing tricks on horseback for the amusement of his Majesty. They rode these stallions with an odd name. Lipizzaner or something like that."

Aramis, shook his head as he recalled their airs above the ground. "Those horses did astonishing moves and the riders feats of pure magic. At one point, two of these white stallions came out of nowhere, galloping side by side, in perfect rhythm, stopping in front of the King. Suddenly, a rider popped up from between the two animals where he had been hidden from view. The King was delighted with the trick. However, while it was an amazing feat, I mostly remember it because when the rider sprang up out of nowhere, right in front of the King, we almost shot him. It was a close call…for the rider. He had eight muskets aimed at him though luckily none of us pulled our triggers."

"Poor bloke."

"Had we pulled the trigger, indeed. But as it happened, he remained unscathed. I do recall his dismount was a touch more, shall we say refined, than yours," Aramis joshed his friend.

"Yeah? Well next time you hang on for dear life between two moving horses…"

"Walking horses…the acrobat rode between two galloping horses."

"…and I'll crouch behind the horses and shoot the bad guys," Porthos finished as he adjusted his clothing now that he was done brushing off the dirt.

"But I'm the superior shot," Aramis declared without bravado.

"I'll practice," Porthos quickly retorted as he moved towards the horses' heads.

Turning serious, Aramis walked over to the dead soldiers lying face-down in the dirt. Using the toe of his boot, he turned them over one at a time so he could see their faces. "Neither one is the leader," Aramis remarked with a sigh.

"Didn't think we'd be that lucky," Porthos threw over his shoulder as he untied the two horses. The Lipizzaners might have been well-trained enough to keep perfect pace with each other, but Flip and Fidget were not, so the musketeers had secured them together. Before they mounted, Aramis handed Porthos his pistol and they each reloaded since Aramis had shot off both of them.

"If these two are here that means the other two and Athos must be fairly close," Porthos theorized as he shoved the rod down the muzzle of the pistol to tamp down the powder.

Aramis clipped his rod into place, shoved the pistol onto his belt and mounted his horse. "Then we'd best be off."


	23. Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

Athos drew Roger to a halt as he made sure the dagger in his hand was not visible to Anton. It was his only advantage and he didn't want to reveal it. The sword, on the other hand, was somewhat more visible since the musket holder wasn't deep enough to conceal it.

"Where is Germalli who was escorting you?" Anton inquired as he continued to point his loaded pistol at Athos. He noted the sword grip sticking out of the gun pouch and he really didn't need the musketeer's reply to know what had happened to his soldier.

The swordsman gave an indifferent shrug as he sat coolly on his black stallion. "It seems your man...fell off his horse."

Frowning, Anton remarked in an offhand manner, "How strange. Germalli is an accomplished horseman. I wonder, did he have help falling off his horse?"

The musketeer's face remained impassive as he spoke. "His horse…stumbled and he fell. Your Spanish horses," Athos made a rude noise, "they leave a lot to be desired. I see why you felt the need to steal France's magnificent stallions."

"As we see that didn't work out so well for Spain. Perhaps, I should have spared that horse breeder instead of killing him. I could have brought him to my country to improve our horses," Anton goaded the musketeer. A stiffening in the posture of the swordsman confirmed in Anton's mind that this was Athos' Achilles heel; his loyalty to others. "In a few seconds, those two musketeers that were pursuing us, they will also be dead. My men are well-hidden in the ravine and will shoot them as if they are sitting ducks. You might as well submit to your fate now and come along quietly for there is no escape for you."

"I would rather die," Athos growled as he continued to stare defiantly at the Spaniard.

"Your death could be easily arranged as I am holding the gun. Still, I believe you do possess knowledge of France that will be useful for us when we invade your country. So, I think I shall keep you alive, for now. Perhaps though, I will shoot you in the leg to slow you down." Anton raised his pistol as if to make good on his threat.

As the two men sat on their horses glaring at each other defiantly, two shots rang out from the ravine. An evil smile slowly spread across Anton's face when he heard the sound. The deed had been done.

"My trap has been sprung. Your would-be rescuers are no more. More men killed because of you. Now, come along quietly, musketeer. There is nothing left for you," Anton demanded with a little wave of his gun.

"There is one thing left!" Athos bellowed as he spurred Roger forward towards the Spaniard. "To kill you!" Brandishing the dagger in his left hand, he aimed his mount squarely at Anton's horse. The two massive animals slammed into each other, both stallions screaming with fury. Athos swung the knife at Anton's chest as the Spaniard pulled the trigger.

The gunshot rang through the air, echoing off the rocks of the ravine as Anton and Athos fell from their saddles to the ground. Instinct took over as both fighters rolled away from each other. Upon quick examination of himself, the Spanish captain found that Athos' aim had not been true and the dagger's blade had only left a small gash in his chest.

Athos, a few feet away, marveled that the bullet from Anton's pistol had burrowed through the side of his right arm before exiting. The wound hurt like hell, was freely bleeding, and when he lifted his right-arm he found his mobility compromised. But he was alive!

The horses snapped at each other with their teeth, but neither one inflicted any damage before they broke apart and separated, each moving a few yards down the road. The two fighters were also quick to get back on their feet, Anton swiftly drawing his sword and Athos scurrying to his horse to grab his pilfered weapon from its holder. His face twisted in agony as he stretched to grab the blade. Once he had it in his left hand, he spun around to see Anton already armed and facing him.

"Are you left-handed?" Anton goaded, his blade held horizontally, tip pointed towards Athos' chest. "I think not. What a shame you have to fight at a disadvantage."

The musketeer wasn't about to give the Spaniard any information about his swordsmanship, so his only reply was to raise his sword with his left hand, aligning the flat of the steel blade with the ground, mirroring his opponent.

Anton began moving to his right and Athos kept pace with him across the imaginary circle being paced in the dirt. The Spaniard made a testing jab, which Athos easily brushed aside. After a few more feints and jabs, Anton declared with a smile, "You are not unskilled with your left hand. Good. If I am going to kill you, and I am, I at least want it to be enjoyable. There is no fun in slaughtering a pig."

"A man I once knew told me head over heart if you want to win a duel. You, Monsieur, are proving to be neither intelligent nor passionate. Therefore, I must do the honorable thing and insist you lay down your weapon now as you have no chance of winning." Athos dropped his sword to his side and stood there as if he fully expected his opponent would yield.

There were rumors in Spain that the French musketeers were an odd and crazy lot and the one in front of him was confirming every tale. Did this musketeer truly think he, Anton, was simply going to lay down his sword because he was told to do it? That was a crazy notion for it was clear, at least to him, that he had every advantage over Athos. He had not been kidnapped, starved and beaten for the last three days. He was not fighting with his non-dominant hand. He, Anton, was in perfect health, other than the minor scratch the musketeer had just inflicted upon him. Surrender? Never.

"You must have hit your head, Monsieur Athos, if you think you have won. You are the one that should be placing your weapon on the ground and kneeling in front of me in defeat," Anton informed him in an arrogant tone.

Anton drew his main-gauche so he could fight with both weapons. But in the end, it made no difference. The musketeer wove a deadly dance around him. Spinning, thrusting, his blade flashing in the sunlight, its sharp surface reaching out and finding Anton's arm, side, back. Suddenly, dread flooded over Anton as he realized even left-handed this musketeer was better than he was, much better. He realized that the swordsman was toying with him, like a cat with a mouse. Anton finally understood what many over the years would come to know; injured or not, he was going to lose to Athos.

Even though Athos was tired, he didn't immediately seek to defeat his opponent. The last few weeks had been stressful: the battle, seeing Jourdain again, being kidnapped, Jourdain's death. He felt the need to burn off his frustrations and this was a convenient opportunity. He was going to kill Anton, no doubt in his mind, but he was going to do it slowly.

Athos had always enjoyed the challenge of a sword fight, both the physical and mental aspect of the contest. His father, however, had never thought his overt interest in swordplay appropriate for his future position in life. The Comte didn't mind that his son was good, very good, but sword fighting had its time and place. It was not something a first-born son did for fun. It was simply another skill a good Comte possessed.

Even though Athos knew he was at a disadvantage, fighting left-handed, without his own main-gauche and not being at his physical best, Athos continued to toy with the Spaniard. A touch here, a light slash there, marking his opponent, but not disabling him or going for the win.

In the distance, the sound of horses approaching made itself heard over the ringing of the swords.

"Ah. Finally. My men are returning after having killed your musketeer friends," Anton goaded again, taking a step back as Athos paused to listen. "You musketeers. You are nothing more than toy soldiers. An ornamental decoration that the King has in his Palace, like a fancy wall hanging. Perhaps pretty to look at, but of no real value."

Athos took a step back too, listening to the sound of the approaching horses. Two, based on the hoof beats. It could be Aramis and Porthos. He had seen them entering the camp as they rode away. The three of them had only been a team for a short while, but he thought they would try to rescue him, though, as always, there was a small niggling doubt in the back of his mind. He had been hurt often, by many people, and sometimes it made him doubt his self-worth.

Anton, continuing to try to distract Athos, began speaking again. "Don't even think it is your two friends come to rescue you. They had no chance. That ravine was the perfect trap. There is no way my men would fail to slay your musketeers."

Again, Athos' mind warred with itself. Aramis and Porthos were experienced musketeers, but he had just ridden through that ravine. It was a death trap. Had he once again caused harm to those around him? Tendrils of guilt began to weave themselves through his battered soul. Though his friends often noted it, Athos never seemed to understand he was his own worst enemy at times.

Anger and guilt washed over him and with a shout, he launched a vicious attack that caused Anton to have to move backwards in order not to get skewered. Athos pressed on relentlessly, and Anton retreated more quickly until he lost his balance and fell. His weapons dropped from his numb hands when his back slammed into the dirt. The tip of Athos' rapier quickly pressed itself into the Spaniards chest, directly over his heart, while he used his feet to kick the downed man's weapons out of reach.

The hoof beats grew louder and Athos pushed the tip of his sword deeper into the flesh of his enemy until blood began to seep out of the wound. This man killed Jourdain. And Aramis. And Porthos. He deserved to die. He was getting ready to push his blade into Anton's heart when a voice rang out.

"Athos!" Porthos' booming voice cut through the air as the two musketeers rounded the bend and spotted their third.

The horses drew to a halt as the two men slid from their saddles and rushed to their friend's side, pointing their own pistols at the captive on the ground.

"So, all this rushing about for nothing. You escaped without our assistance. I knew we should have stopped for a nice lunch," Aramis quipped, as he stared down at the man pinned under Athos' sword. "Funny, I thought he was taller."

Porthos gave a gruff laugh. "Oi, people tend to look smaller when skewered on the tip of a sword. Also, dumber."

Aramis and Porthos waited a moment, expecting Athos to remove this sword so the prisoner could arise and be bound. After all, they did have their guns trained on the man too. There was no way the Spaniard was going to escape.

After a few awkward moments passed by, Aramis slowly declared, "You can let him up, Athos. We'll bind him and take him back to Paris for trial."

Athos didn't move a muscle as he continued to glare at Anton, while keeping him pinned on the ground.

Aramis and Porthos passed a questioning glance between themselves before Porthos spoke. "We've got him, Athos. Let him up."

"No." The word was spoken quietly, but firmly, with all indications there would be no quarter given in this discussion.

"Athos. It's over. He and his men have been captured. The horses are safe. Spain has been defeated. This is over."

The tip of Athos' blade pushed harder into Anton's chest, causing the small red stain on the Spaniard's shirt to grow larger.

"Athos!" Aramis barked. "What are you doing?"

That was a good question, Athos thought to himself. What was he doing? Part of his conscience, the small rational part still operating, understood and agreed with Aramis. This was over. But the rest of his mind as well as his hurt body and weary soul wanted to kill this man for what he had done. For the pain and the suffering he had inflicted.

Treville's words drifted across Athos' warring conscience. _'Remember, while we are musketeers, sworn by oath to protect our King and country, we are not the King or the judge. It is not our duty to decide the fate of a person.'_ Had it only been a week ago when his Captain had uttered those words? It seemed like an eternity at the moment.

This man had killed Jourdain. One of his, make that Olivier's, only friends as a child. His life had been rather cold and sterile growing up. He knew from early on in his life he was a disappointment to his parents. Jourdain had been a bright spot in that life.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he glowered at the man he had pinned to the earth. The one who had killed his friend Jourdain for no reason. The man who had to die; the man he needed dead. His sword quivered.

"Athos! No! You don't have the right to kill him!" Aramis pleaded.

"The hell I don't!"

'_Life is precious and none of us have the right to arbitrarily end another's' _Treville's words flooded his mind again. Damn the man. This wasn't arbitrary. Anton had killed Jourdain. An eye for an eye as the bible said.

Porthos advanced on Athos until he was within an arm's reach. Slowly, he reached out his hand and gently placed it on Athos' left shoulder. "Athos. You are hurt. Not thinking clearly. You don't need to kill him."

"I do. He killed Jourdain. He deserves to die. By my hand."

Startled, Porthos glanced over at Aramis. Athos thought Jourdain was dead?

"Jourdain is very much alive," Aramis stated hoping to catch Athos' attention, which he did.

"Alive? I saw this bastard shoot him. In the yard. For no reason." Athos' sword vibrated with his anger and the tip sank a little deeper.

"I assure you Jourdain is very much alive. I wouldn't lie to you, Athos?" Puzzlement soaked Aramis' voice.

Olivier the Comte had been lied to, hurt by, so many that Athos the musketeer found it hard to trust. "People lie," Athos spat out more harshly than he truly intended.

"Yes," Aramis said sadly, "They do. But not friends. Please, put the sword down."

"You told me," Athos growled at the Spaniard. "You told me you killed him!"

"I lied. I lied to get you to cooperate," Anton confessed, not wanting to die here, now. "I pretended to shoot him. But I didn't. I swear. If you don't believe me, believe your friends."

Porthos started to move, but a little head shake from Aramis had him halt. Aramis was sure Athos would come to his senses and he was afraid if they interfered, it would be taken as a betrayal and hurt their blossoming trust.

Time seemed to stand still as they waited to see what Athos would do, kill Anton or walk away.


	24. Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

Loyalty. Integrity. Concepts with which he had been born. Duty. Honor. Respect. Concepts that had been drilled into him as the first son of the Comte de la Fére. Personal courage. Selfless service. Concepts he was learning as a musketeer. Seven values. A creed to live by, if one chose that path.

With a growl, he withdrew his blade, turned and walked away. Porthos kept his gun trained on Anton, while Aramis knelt on the ground next to him to check out the wound. When he was satisfied that Athos had restrained himself and it was a mere flesh wound, he stood and brushed the dirt off his knees.

"You are lucky. Athos easily could have killed you. He showed you mercy, after all you have done to him. I'd be thanking God if I were you," Aramis lectured the soldier in Spanish.

Anton turned his head away. He knew back in Paris he would most likely be executed, never to see his mother country of Spain again, though considering how badly this mission had failed, maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. Still, shame or not, he didn't want to die and perhaps he still had a chance. A chance somehow to escape on the way to Paris. For now, he'd be patient. A model prisoner while he looked for his opportunity to get away.

"Go after Athos. I'll tie him up," Aramis suggested to Porthos.

While Athos was learning to trust him, Aramis knew that the ordeal that Athos and Porthos had faced together in Dieppe had forged a reliance between the two. A trust. Or as much trust as Athos was willing to give anyone. Aramis sensed that something in the swordsman's past had truly shaken Athos' faith in others and sometimes that still got in the way of him trusting, even his friends. But as with a high-strung horse, Aramis simply approached Athos slowly and carefully, except when he occasionally barged in and stepped all over Athos' personal space in order to expedite things. However, as there was no urgency now to do so, Aramis restrained his natural exuberance to let Porthos take the lead on approaching and coaching Athos through this ordeal.

Helping Anton to his feet, Aramis motioned for him to move towards the horses where there was rope to bind him. This also moved him further away from Athos and Porthos, affording them some privacy.

Porthos slowly walked over to where Athos was standing staring into the distance, his sword hanging numbly, in his left hand, at his side. Reaching out, Porthos took the blade from the man, letting it drop to the ground. Then carefully stepping in front of his friend, he gently placed his hands on Athos' shoulders, being sure not to put pressure on any of his wounds. "It's over," he said softly, but firmly. "Are you ok?"

Athos' green eyes searched Porthos' concerned ones, then shifted to look over his shoulder at where Anton and Aramis stood across the clearing. They stood like that for a moment before Athos shrugged off Porthos' hands and headed over to where Roger stood. Porthos watched as his friend walked away from him, clearly indicating he wasn't ready to talk to him yet. It didn't surprise the streetfighter for he had learned on the Dieppe trip the depths of Athos' demons. He also knew in time, Athos would likely seek them out. Patience was the game. Turning away, he glanced over at Aramis and slightly shook his head.

Aramis, who had been unobtrusively watching, saw Porthos signal and sighed. It seemed this wasn't going to be easy, but when was it ever with Athos and his emotions. Indicating for Porthos to keep an eye on their prisoner, whom he had tied up, Aramis walked over to stand by Athos.

"Before we ride let me take a look at your wounds, see how bad they are," Aramis suggested as he ran a practiced eye up and down the man's lithe frame.

"I'm fine," Athos declared resolutely as he reached out and gathered up Roger's reins in his good hand. Before Aramis could offer up a protest, the swordsman had swung aboard Roger's back. "Get him mounted and let's ride."

"Are you sure you are well enough to ride? We could…" But Athos had already jerked Roger's head and was moving away.

With another soft sigh, Aramis joined Porthos and their Spanish prisoner. After they had the captain secured to his horse in a similar fashion to what had been done to Athos, they moved a few feet away from Anton so he couldn't hear their conversation. Neither man had any doubts that Athos was watching over Anton like hawk, and if the prisoner gave any indication of trying to escape, he would be thwarted. Athos had the sword from the dead soldier, Anton's own main-gauche and a pistol he had taken from Porthos. He was well armed and in a foul mood.

Porthos got right to the point. "Is Athos gonna fall off his horse?"

Giving a tiny shrug, Aramis replied, "It's certainly a possibility, judging by the injuries I can see and his overall general state of health."

"And that don't concern you? Him falling off I mean?"

Aramis started back towards their horses, who were waiting patiently. "Well, the way I see it, if he falls off and knocks himself out, he will be much easier to deal with. And at the moment, he is really not taking any of my suggestions to heart. So, I guess we do it his way."

"Oi. Until he falls off." Porthos mounted Flip. "Then I suppose it will be my job to pick him up."

"We all have our talents my dear Porthos. Mine is with a needle and thread and yours is the, ah, heavy lifting."

Mounting their own beasts, they ambled back over to where Athos and the Spaniard's horse stood. Grabbing the reins, Aramis took point leading the prisoner. Athos followed behind them and Porthos brought up the rear, the perfect position, Porthos thought wryly, to see and retrieve Athos from the ground should he fall off his mount.

Coming back the way they went, they eventually ended back at the clearing where the battle had taken place. The dead had been piled to the side, the wounded tended to and the remaining soldiers were securely tied. The ten stallions were tethered where they could eat the lush green grass and they were behaving like perfect gentlemen, not a squabble amongst them.

The musketeers in the clearing had been conferring on what to do next because logistically, they were outnumbered for the tasks needing to be completed. They had fourteen live soldiers to ferry back to Paris and ten stallions to return to Comte Vergy's estate. Considering there were only ten musketeers, it was not going to be an easy task.

Aramis rode into the clearing first, calling out to the musketeer on guard so he didn't get trigger happy and accidently shoot him. Some of the musketeers were happy to see the safe return of the Inseparables, others were not as pleased, being in the same camp as Roudon. Aramis led Anton over to were the rest of the prisoners were being held and handed him off to Jared for safe keeping.

Porthos and Athos came to a halt and the streetfighter watched with a mixture of annoyance and amusement as Athos half slid, half fell, off his horse. Miraculously, Athos landed on his feet, though he was leaning so heavily on Roger's side, Porthos was sure that the swordsman would topple over if the stallion wasn't there to support him.

"Need any help?" Porthos inquired sarcastically as he watched Athos pretend to be standing under his own power.

"No, I'm good," Athos replied evenly, though he well knew if asked to step away from Roger, he'd fall face first in the dirt. The object now was to buy time for his legs to recover.

Porthos stared at him for a few minutes then walked away muttering under his breath, "You are as stubborn as a jackass." When he got over to where Aramis was conferring with DuPort, who was leading the group of musketeers, he asked, "So, what's the plan?"

"We're a little short on musketeers. We have to ferry the prisoners to Paris, return the stallions to Comte Vergy's estate and also deliver the King's horses," explained DuPort summing up what he and Aramis had been discussing.

Growing up on the streets of Paris, Porthos was much better at planning than most of the musketeers gave him credit for. Without a plan living on the mean streets of Paris, you ended up dead. Aramis and Athos also knew he had a sharp mind, but some thought him dim-witted because of his background.

"Ten musketeers should be more than enough to take the secured prisoners to Paris," Porthos stated with a sarcastic edge to his voice as if he doubted the other musketeers' ability. "Aramis, Athos and I will take the stallions back to the estate, get the King's horses and deliver them safely to the Palace."

DuPort frowned as he listened to the idea. "Are three of you enough to deliver the horses safely to the King? Last time there were five of you. And he," he indicated, looking towards Athos, "doesn't seem sober, though how he could be drunk out here is beyond me."

Fury flashed in Porthos eyes making them darken. "He's been a prisoner of the Spanish. Hurt. Beaten. How dare you suggest he is drunk!"

DuPort was of the same mindset as Roudon when it came to Porthos, and the Inseparables in general. He didn't understand why Treville brought the likes of them into the regiment. "It's no secret what Athos is."

Porthos took a step closer, his fist clenched in fury, eyes darkening even more until they were nearly black as the night.

Aramis quickly stepped between them and smoothly inserted, "DuPort, we are more than capable of handling this task on our own."

"If you fail…"

"We won't," Porthos growled, though a nudge from Aramis kept him from retorting in any other manner.

"...it will be on your head. I will make sure the Captain and the King understand this was your idea and I, for one, was not in favor of it," DuPort finished with a haughty tone.

"Duly noted," Aramis acknowledged with mocking smile.

"Don't be in any hurry to go runnin' to Treville. We will be successful. Hell, we might even beat you back to Paris," Porthos goaded the bigot.

Aramis, not wanting the situation to escalate, turned and tactfully suggested, "Porthos, why don't you go let Athos know about the plan."

With an unhappy grunt, because he really wanted to throttle DuPort, Porthos walked back across the grass to where Athos was still propped against his horse while Aramis finished up with the other musketeer.

"We're taking the stallions back to Comte Vergy's estates," Porthos said without preamble, coming to a halt by Athos and Roger.

Athos eyes narrowed as he stared over at the group of captives. "And the prisoners?" though they both knew there was only one he cared about.

"Will go back to Paris under the guardianship of DuPort and his troops."

"I see. Then I shall…" Athos started before Porthos decisively cut him off.

"…be going with me and Aramis to take the horses to the estate." He could tell Athos was getting ready to argue with him so he added. "Don't push me on this, Athos. You're in no condition to be watching over any prisoners. You'd be a liability and that group don't need anything distracting them if you want all those prisoners to make it to Paris to stand trial. Hell, I'm not sure if they can even find their way back to Paris by themselves under DuPort's command. Stuck up aristocratic bastard."

A small smile lifted the corner of Athos' spilt lip because he felt the same as Porthos about DuPort and many of the other nobility in the ranks of the musketeers. They, like many he had met over the years, were convinced of their superiority even though they were often quite wrong. Rank and privilege certainly played a large role in one's life, but it didn't signify that they were better people than the so-called 'common' man.

Both men looked over when they heard the sounds of the musketeers moving out with the prisoners. Half of the ten musketeers led the horses carrying the secured prisoners while the rest formed a front and rear guard. DuPort, in the lead, didn't give a second glance back at the Inseparables as he rode out of the clearing. He hoped they failed and lost the King's horses to bandits. The three were an insufferable, low-class, smug lot and he failed to understand the overt interest Treville had in them even if they were good at fighting. In his mind their weaponry skills did not make up for their other deficiencies. When they failed, perhaps Treville would see the light and kick them out of the regiment. If not, Roudon and the other like-minded musketeers would simply have to petition the King and if Treville was caught in the cross fire, so be it. The Captain, nobility himself, should know better.


	25. Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

As the last horse left the clearing, Aramis strolled back over to where Porthos and Athos stood. "I can't say I'm overly sorry to see them go."

"Got that right." Porthos agreed whole-heartedly "That DuPort is as insufferable as Roudon." Looking over at Athos he added, "Do you know Roudon forbid us to come after you?"

"It doesn't surprise me," Athos declared drolly. "He was not a big supporter of my…recruitment."

"He just doesn't know how lovable you are under that gruff exterior," Aramis teased. The frown he got from Athos made him laugh. "Now come, let's set up camp."

"Why? It is barely after midday. We can certainly make some good progress before the sun sets," Athos logically pointed out; at least it seemed logical in his duty-bound mind.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances. Apparently, this was going to happen the hard way. Aramis took the lead this time. "Taking a little longer to get back isn't an issue. You need to rest and have your wounds attended to before we head back to the estate with the stallions."

Glaring at Aramis, the swordsman declared, "I'm fine. You can examine them tonight when we stop. I won't perish between now and then."

"But you might fall off your horse and I'd have to do the 'heavy lifting'," Porthos grumbled under his breath.

"As your personal physician, I'd advise against riding any more today." Athos' eyes grew darker and it almost seemed as if he planted his feet deeper in the ground. Aramis tried a different tack. "OK, how about this. Captain Treville put me in charge of this rescue operation. I'm ordering you to stand down and rest."

Athos wasn't going to be thwarted by his companions even though the small rational part of his mind was suggesting he give in because he was going to lose. But he didn't and fought on. "This is no longer a rescue operation. That mission is complete. Now we are returning the stallions to their rightful owner. Different mission. Since I know best the way back to the estate, I should be in charge of the _new _mission."

The other two musketeers, to their credit, didn't burst out laughing at Athos' logical manipulations to get his way. "How about if I say please?" Aramis cajoled. When Athos didn't budge, he turned to Porthos. "Would you like to have a go at it?"

Purposely, Porthos swiftly covered the ground between himself and Roger, grabbed the horse's bridle and practically dragged the poor animal five feet to the left. The stallion let out a distressed neigh at the rough treatment and a guilty Porthos reached up and stroked the animal on the neck. "Sorry boy," he muttered, "But it's necessary."

The unexpected maneuver had the desired effect. When Athos' prop was removed, the swordsman swayed for a few seconds trying to find his equilibrium, then tumbled to the earth.

"You don't look so fine to me," Porthos pointed out as he led Roger over to Aramis and handed him the reins. "Looks like to me, you need to rest, here, for the night. And since you are going to do that, Aramis might as well look at those wounds that aren't bothering you."

Aramis raised an eyebrow at Porthos' tactics. "That was a bit abrupt," he observed mildly

"But highly effective," Porthos flung over his shoulder as he walked back to stand next to Athos. He stood silently, watching, as Athos pushed himself to his knees. "Please don't tell me you're gonna try to stand."

Athos didn't say a word as he struggled to get his feet under him so he could stand. His attempt went nowhere and he toppled over onto the ground once more. That didn't deter the stubborn musketeer as he pushed himself upright and tried once more to rise. His second attempt also failed and before he could make a third, Porthos reached down, picked him up, and slung him over his shoulder.

Athos gave a muffled protest of pain or disgust, Porthos wasn't sure which, but he ignored the man. "Where do you want him?" he asked as he faced Aramis.

Aramis, who was half-amused and half-horrified at the manhandling, pointed towards the small stream on the far side of the clearing. "Over there, so we won't have to haul the water so far."

With a nod, Porthos strode away. When he got near the stream, he stopped, looked around and then settled Athos on the grass with his back against a fallen tree. "Stay," he commanded as if he was dealing with a dog. It probably wasn't necessary for Porthos doubted Athos could crawl more than a few feet if his life depended on it, but it made him feel better.

Moving back to where his horse was, Porthos grabbed his saddlebags and his bedroll. "Take care of the horses and I'll set up camp. Then he is all yours," he told Aramis.

Sometimes Athos' stubbornness about his well-being pushed the good-natured Porthos over the edge. The streetfighter had a hard time trying to understand why someone like Athos couldn't see his own worth. He loved his brother-in-arms but sometimes the man just vexed him.

NOTE: Half way there.


	26. Chapter 26

CHAPTER 26

By the time Aramis made sure the ten stallions were securely staked out along with Roger, Flip and Fidget, Porthos had a small fire going, the bedrolls laid out, Athos installed on top of one, a pot of water warming on the fire and food stuffs piled to one side. Before joining his brothers, Aramis grabbed his own saddlebags, which contained the medical supplies he would require to patch up Athos.

As he waked over to their little camp, Porthos, who had been stroking the fire, stood. "I'll go hunt some fresh meat for dinner." With that, he headed off into the woods leaving Aramis and Athos alone.

Aramis tested the pot of water warming on the fire and then moved it further from the embers as it was sufficiently warm to remove dirt, but not so hot as to remove skin. "While I make ready my supplies, I need you to strip, please."

Athos remained still, not moving a muscle to comply with Aramis' request.

"Come now. Don't be shy. This isn't the first time I have stitched you up."

If anything, Athos seemed to hunker down more, even though the only things that moved were his eyes, which swept over Aramis disdainfully before settling on the horizon.

"I could call Porthos back to assist you in undressing if you'd like." Aramis paused as he spread out a few items on the bedroll next to Athos. "But I doubt either one of you would enjoy the experience."

The eyes darted from the horizon to glare at him, then turned themselves once more to the distance.

With a large sigh, Aramis said, "Athos…" but he was cut off by a swift, single question.

"Why?"

The marksman, who'd been squatting, dropped fully to the ground and draped his long arms over his knees. "Why what?" When Athos didn't speak, Aramis said, "Why am I insisting you take your clothes off so I can examine your wounds? Well, it is simply easier that way," he mildly joked, suspecting that wasn't Athos' real question.

Athos' eyes dropped from the horizon to study the ground near his feet. While they were hooded, Aramis could see enough to know Athos was seriously troubled by something.

"I have a feeling, I haven't answered the right question. So, I will ask once more. Why what?" This time Aramis did not make any jokes, but went silent, waiting for Athos to speak up of his own volition.

For a long few moments, the only sound was the water bubbling in the stream beside them. Finally, Athos raised his unsettled green eyes and studied Aramis. "Why did you and Porthos come to rescue me when it was expressly against Roudon's orders. You didn't need to worry. I would have died before I revealed anything about France to the Spaniards."

Aramis could barely prevent incredulousness from creeping into his voice. "You think we came to rescue you because we were afraid you'd betray France?" He shook his head slowly with disbelief. "Did it ever occur to you, we rescued you because you are our _friend_? And that's what friends do? Have you not heard us say one for all and all for one?"

Athos adverted his eyes once more, this time to stare at the grass. "You went against direct orders…"

"...from an idiot, as would have you if it had been Porthos or me in the same situation. Or at least I hope you would."

That got Athos' attention and he raised he eyes once more to look at the marksman. "Of course, I would. You can trust me to always have yours and Porthos' backs."

"Then why can't you trust us to have your back, Athos?" Aramis asked bluntly, but not unkindly. When he got no answer, he continued. "Someone has hurt you in the past. Broken your trust. And because of that, you figure the rest of humanity will treat you the same. But Porthos and I are your friends and that means something, at least in our eyes. We won't betray you or leave you behind. You, my friend, are stuck with us."

Speaking in a slow, pain-tinged voice that was only partly attributable to his wounds, Athos said, "Trust is a weapon. And it has been used against me. I have found the best defense against it is... indifference."

Aramis felt sad for the man sitting next to him with such a deep-set fear of intimacy. It spoke of a man who had been betrayed not once, but many times. Aramis knew the taciturn man was not comfortable enough to talk over his trust issues openly with him, but Aramis hoped over time that would change.

"I'm sorry. Whatever hurt you in the past, I can't change. But I can listen. If that helps." Aramis paused to allow the swordsman to talk, but as he suspected, the man remained silent. "When you are ready. But I can promise you that Porthos and I will always have your back. Oh, I'm sure in the course of our friendship we will infuriate you at times, but I also hope we will make you feel happiness and lighten your heart."

"I am not sure I am deserving of that," Athos muttered under his breath.

"I'm not God and so I won't presume to decide what you deserve, though from what I have seen, under that cool exterior you present to the world beats the heart of a kind and compassionate man. What I offer you is an unwavering, until death do us part, friendship, which given how often we get into trouble might be sooner then we wish. You aren't my blood brother, but you are a brother of my heart, and I will carry that to my grave."

Silence settled over the area again but if Aramis hoped that Athos might chose to open up to him some more, he was going to be disappointed. He watched as Athos withdrew into himself once more. But that was alright. Aramis felt he had placed his cards on the table. Maybe one day Athos would feel comfortable enough to lay down one of his own cards. But for now, it was time to move on.

"Alright, if you wouldn't mine removing your shirt, we can get to the business of cleaning up your wounds."

Reluctantly giving in, Athos struggled out of his billowy shirt. "I think you enjoy poking holes in my flesh with that needle of yours," he declared when his head was free of the garment.

"If you would avoid getting sliced open, there would be no need for my wonderful needlework," Aramis parried.

"I shall endeavor to remember that sage piece of advice next time the enemy is trying to skewer me."

Aramis grew quiet as he examined the wounds on Athos' upper body. "The cuts on your sides, old and new, are not deep. They require no stitching. The bullet wound on your right arm passed through cleanly, however, I'd like to make a poultice for it. I suspect an infection is brewing. I won't stitch it now, but maybe tomorrow. You're using it too much and it is not going to heal that way. Of course, if you will let me put it in a sling for a few days..."

"Not happening."

"…then stitching it is. The slice on your left bicep also needs a stitch or two to keep it closed. Your hand please."

Like a naughty child about to be slapped for a misdeed, Athos reluctantly held out his hand and Aramis gently began to examine it.

"This is nasty, ragged. What was it made with?" he inquired as he examined the wound.

"A stick," Athos replied succinctly.

"Amazing it was able to pierce the hand like that. He must have used some force."

With a little rueful grin, Athos explained, "He had whittled the end into a point. Still, it was…unpleasant when he drove it through my palm."

"How much movement do you have in your fingers?" Though Aramis was doing his best to keep his voice even, he was worried about damage to the tendons in the hand, a devastating injury for an expert swordsman like Athos.

Grimacing, Athos slowly and painfully showed Aramis he could move each of his digits. By the time he was done, a light sweat shone on his contorted face and he was slightly panting.

Compassionately, Aramis place a comforting hand on Athos' forearm. "My friend, you are truly blessed by God to have such a horrible injury with no damage to your dexterity. I believe you will retain full use of your hand if we stave off any infection, and you force yourself, no matter how painful, to keep stretching your fingers."

At the mention of being blessed, Athos' face clouded over and Aramis realized he had inadvertently hit another one of Athos' sore spots, God. He and Athos in their short acquaintance had already had numerous conversations on the subject. Aramis was a firm believer in the Almighty and His power and His mercy. Athos firmly believed he was destined for the depths of hell. For what, Aramis and Porthos weren't sure, but they were sure Athos considered himself dammed.

Wisely, Aramis decided now was not the time or the place for a theological discussion, so he shelved his lecture and went about slathering the swordsman's hand and arms with a poultice and then binding them with clean cloths. When he was finished, he rocked back on his heels and studied Athos' torso, which was covered in a multitude of colorful bruises. Fearing broken ribs, he knew he had to explore the bruised areas.

"I'm sorry. This isn't going to be pleasant, but I need to check if any of your ribs are broken."

"I don't think so," Athos offered helpfully, not at all eager to have the medic touching his abused torso.

"Well, if you are wrong it could end your life if a rib punctures your lung. As your doctor, I can't let that happen on my watch."

"You are not really a doctor," Athos felt obliged to point out.

"Closest you are going to find to one out here in the great wilderness. Now hold still. This is probably going to hurt."

Aramis placed one hand on each side of Athos ribcage, starting at the top, and slowly made his way down towards his hips, testing each rib as his hand passed over it. Athos had bowed his head, letting his hair, which had grown long again, fall to either side of his face shielding it from view.

"You need a haircut, my friend," Aramis said conversationally as he examined Athos' ribs. "Scruffy is sexy, or so the women tell me. You, however, are way past that point."

About a third of the way down his torso, Athos began to shake and make unidentifiable muffled noises. When Aramis was nearly done, he felt drops of moistures hitting his hand.

"I know. I'm sorry, Athos. I don't mean to hurt you," Aramis said sympathetically. Finally, he reached the last rib and let out his breath which he hadn't realized he was holding. "We're done my friend. You were right. Miraculously, none are broken.

Even though the ordeal was over, Athos kept his head bowed and was still shaking slightly. Concerned, Aramis requested, "Athos, look at me." When the swordsman wouldn't comply, he reached over and, placing a few fingers under the Athos' chin, forced the man to raise his head. When his face came into view, Aramis was expecting to see it contorted in pain. What he did see surprised him.


	27. Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

"Are you laughing?" Aramis asked in amazement.

Tears were still dripping down Athos' face as he tried to turn away, but Aramis wouldn't let him. "You're crying and you're laughing?"

Athos gave a few sniffs, but otherwise remained silent.

Aramis let go of Athos' chin and sat back down puzzled. Then it dawned on him. "You're ticklish!"

"Am not," Athos gasped as he fought for control over his traitorous body. If Aramis and Porthos confirmed that it was true, that he was ticklish, he'd never live it down. And he had a feeling they would not be above tickling him if they could use it to their advantage. "You were hurting me," he declared, seeking to deflect suspicion. "Those Spaniards used me as a punching bag. I am very bruised and my skin is very sensitive, from pain."

"I'm sadden at how they treated you. Your skin is bruised and sensitive no doubt. However, you are good at tolerating pain, so I don't think that is the issue. I think," Aramis declared with a huge smile, "Athos, the finest swordsman in all of France is ticklish. Oh, let's hope that doesn't get out, or your enemies might use it against you."

"Only you and Porthos would be that cruel," Athos muttered under his breath.

Porthos, who had caught some rabbits and was bringing them over to the fire, stopped in his tracks when he saw that remnants of the tears on Athos' face.

"What did you do to him, Aramis?" the overly concerned streetfighter asked as he let the rabbits drop into the grass. "Why is he crying?"

Aramis rose to his feet, brushing a stray twig or two off his breeches. "Those, Porthos, are tears of joy."

"He's crying 'cause he's happy?" Porthos glanced between the two men, unable to fathom what was going on here.

"I am happy because our fine medic here has declared I will regain full use of my sword hand." As if to prove the point, Athos raised his bandaged hand and wiggled his fingers, but only a little, because it still hurt to do so. However, he was so desperate to hide the truth he'd try anything to deflect the issue.

Athos could continue to try to change the subject, but Aramis wasn't going to let the swordsman's new vulnerability remain hidden. "I gave him a most thorough examination and I'm pleased to say with some rest and food he will make a complete recovery."

"Still don't explain why he was cryin'. He's usually so damn stoic it makes you want to haul off and smack him just to make him cry. So, how'd you manage to bring tears to his eyes?" Porthos continued to study Athos as he sat on the ground, a faint flush staining his fair skin. "Has he got a fever? He looks kind of red. I mean, I don't know, you're the medic and all."

"Porthos. That is an excellent point you bring up," Aramis said with glee, having been handed the perfect opportunity unknowingly by his friend. "You are exactly right. We all should learn some basic medical skills in case I'm not around."

Athos wasn't sure where this was going, but his gut told him it was not going to be in a direction he liked.

"We should all be able to diagnosis common medical issues, such as, oh I don't know, say broken ribs."

Now, Athos knew exactly where Aramis was going. The flush on his neck and face grew pinker. "That's not what Porthos said." Glancing meaningfully at the rabbits on the grass, he added, "I'm hungry. I'll help skin the rabbits so we can eat faster."

"Even if you had two good hands, which you don't, you are not getting near those rabbits. I don't want to have to eat trail rations because you hacked them to pieces. And don't even think of offering to help cook," Aramis stated in the firmest of manners. "No, I will skin them and Porthos will cook them, right after I teach him a simple medical procedure."

"No!" Athos exclaimed loudly.

"He's right, Athos. Ain't no way you're gettin' near them bunnies," Porthos agreed with Aramis. He'd been the first to witness Athos' attempt at cooking while they were on the road to Dieppe. To say it hadn't been pretty was a huge understatement.

"Meant no to the medical part, not the cooking part," Athos clarified. "I freely admit I can't cook."

"Anything else you'd like to freely admit?" Aramis coaxed the swordsman.

"No. I do not think so," Athos said stubbornly, while glaring at Aramis as if he could stare him into submission.

"Have it your way," Aramis said under his breath before turning to face Porthos. "I'm going to show you how to detect broken ribs by gently using your fingers to probe the surface of the rib cage."

The streetfighter turned a wary eye towards the bruised flesh covering Athos' torso and he saw the swordsman blanch. "I dunno, Aramis. Do you think that's a good idea? It looks like it will hurt him. I don't wanna hurt him."

"You also don't want him to die because he has a broken rib and it punctures his lung."

"But didn't you already check him out? You know if his ribs are broken."

"I did and I do know. But the point is you don't know. What if I wasn't here? You'd need to know yourself."

"I could tell him," Athos interjected, but Aramis swiftly cut him off.

"You lie. About your injuries. All the time. You are not to be trusted," Aramis countered and the swordsman ducked his head a little at the truism. "No, Porthos must learn for himself."

Glancing back up at Aramis, Athos asked, "If I admit it, will you not have him check my ribs?"

"Admit what?" a confused Porthos asked, looking back and forth between the two musketeers.

"Sorry, Athos. But it's too late. You had your chance.'"

"Chance for what? I don't know what the hell is going on between the two of you, but I'd like to know," Porthos demanded, getting a little disturbed by this bizarre conversation.

"See, Porthos wants to learn how to check for broken ribs," Aramis said twisting the streetfighter's words again.

"That is not what he said," Athos retorted, though he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

Porthos had enough and yelled, "Stop it. Both of you. Explain what is going on here!"

The other two musketeers grew silent as they entered into a staring contest.

"Athos is ticklish," Aramis said, without breaking eye contact.

"So much for doctor-patient confidentiality," Athos groused as he frowned at Aramis.

"I distinctly recall you saying I was not your doctor."

"Semantics," Athos replied as he finally looked away from Aramis and up at Porthos. "Aramis is correct. The skin on my torso is a little…"

"… a lot…"

"…sensitive. It makes me uncomfortable to have it touched," Athos attempted to state with quiet dignity.

"What he means is he is ticklish, extremely, on his ribs." A gleam appeared in Aramis' eye. "And I bet he is ticklish in other areas too."

"You even attempt to touch…"

"…tickle…"

"…any other area and I will be forced to defend myself by whatever means necessary," Athos declared lifting his chin high.

"Is that a challenge?" Aramis asked, a wicked twinkle in his brown eyes.

"Absolutely not," Athos replied. "It was merely a statement of fact. One you have no need to act on." The look in Aramis' eyes worried him, so Athos added, "Please."

"As you are truly injured and to test out my theory, that you are ticklish in other places, at the moment would be cruel, I shall cease and desist." After a second and under his breath, he added, "For now."

Athos caught the words and frowned. He had a feeling this was the beginning of a very long and, for him, unpleasant journey.

Still grinning, Aramis reached down and picked up the rabbits and walked towards the stream. "Get dressed, while Porthos and I prepare dinner. Your jacket and pauldron are there. We brought it along with us since you forgot it."

Athos looked with awe and humility at the familiar black doublet he'd not noticed until then. "Thank you," he said softly,

Porthos glanced down at Athos, over at the retreating Aramis, and then down at Athos again. "You're really ticklish?"

With a sigh that could be heard all the way down by the stream, Athos confirmed the fact.

"Wow. Somehow someone like you, being ticklish." Porthos shook his head and then smiled. "Who'd thought." After a few seconds of thought he asked, "So, if we were fightin' hand-to-hand, I could use it against you."

With another sigh, Athos reluctantly affirmed, "Yes. I suppose so."

Porthos' grin got a little wider, then turned to a frown. "Well, we're gonna have to figure out how to stop that from being something your enemies can use against you."

"Yes, I'd only want my friends to be able to exploit it," Athos said mockingly.

"Exactly. When you're better, we'll practice until you are no longer ticklish."

"I'm not sure it works that way."

"We'll see won't we."

Reaching for his shirt, Athos muttered, "I can hardly wait."

NOTE: If you've read my works before, you know I like to throw a light interlude in now and then...right before the storm.


	28. Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

Athos ate sparingly and was the first of the three musketeers to stretch out on his bedroll and nod off. Porthos looked over at the slumbering man then gave Aramis a concerned glance. It was obvious the streetfighter was anxious.

"It's nothing to be worried about. Rest is as important as food. We'll make sure he eats before we head out tomorrow morning," Aramis said before turning his attention back to the rabbit haunch he was eating.

Not too much later, they too turned in and a silence, only interrupted by the natural noises of the night, descended over the campsite. The moon was well traveled through the star-lit sky when a hoarse scream pierced the night and Athos, dagger in hand, sat up and began stabbing at the air. His eyes were open, but what he was seeing was for his eyes only.

They kept coming, one right after the other. He slashed, swung, struck and slaughtered the never-ending sea of soldiers attacking him. The ground around him was tainted with red and the footing became treacherous. Slipping to one knee, he fought off his latest attacker before lurching to his feet. More than once, he was driven to his knee and each time he recovered, until finally he couldn't remain upright. He felt himself sinking downward and try as he might he couldn't regain his footing. Something snaked itself around his upper body and began dragging him backwards. Struggling to break away, he found he was unable. With his dagger, he struck at the hand reaching for him, but as he did, he found the pressure on his chest increasing to the point where he was forced to drop his main-gauche.

As his now empty hand flew backward to claw at the object around his chest, he realized he was hearing low indistinguishable sounds, almost like a crooning. The timbre of the muttering voice somehow felt familiar and despite the situation, he found himself relaxing. He allowed his arms to drop to his side lulled by the soothing voice.

"It's all right, Athos," Porthos repeatedly murmured in the swordsman's ear, his powerful arm wrapped around the smaller man's chest, half-hugging, half-restraining him.

Aramis took possession of the dagger Athos had been brandishing about in his nightmare and watched with amazement as Athos calmed down in Porthos' embrace. Slowly, the hazy green eyes began to focus back on the real world, blinking a few times as if to clear away the nightmare.

Turning his head slightly, Athos peered around and saw it was Porthos who was restraining him. Shame and humiliation washed over him as he realized what had happened. A damn embarrassing nightmare.

He tried to struggle out of the streetfighter's hold, but Porthos held him tight. He'd seen this happen to the swordsman a few times so he knew exactly what Athos was feeling. He refused to let go and let the man go crawl into his shell of isolation to beat himself up. Eventually, when Athos figured out he was not breaking free, he gave up and actually leaned back into Porthos' comforting support.

Silence settled over the camp again, as Aramis set the dagger on the edge of Athos' bedroll before moving back to his own to lie down. Exhaustion overtook Athos, his eyelids dropping despite the fact he didn't want to go back to sleep for fear of another nightmare. But sleep won out and he went slack in Porthos' arms and the gentle giant carefully positioned his friend in a comfortable position on his bedroll. Athos squirmed a little then settled into a deep sleep. Porthos moved back to his own blankets and was soon fast sleep.

Come morning, Athos was the last to rise, waking to the smell of food cooking which made his stomach growl. Aramis looked up, filled a bowl and offered it to him, but Athos shook his head.

"You have to eat," Aramis broke the morning silence. "I heard your stomach growl," he added with a small grin.

Athos looked away in the direction of the stream. "Yes, but I want to go to the creek first to...wash off."

Setting the bowl back down the marksman said, "Far be it from me to upset your morning routine. After all, cleanliness is next to Godliness."

Ignoring the joshing, Athos rose, stretched his stiff joints, then made his way down to the creek. He splashed a few handfuls of water on his face and then decided the hell with it, bent over and stuck his head in the creek. After thirty seconds he raised it, letting the cool droplets of water drip down his neck and snake down his chest and back. It was cool and refreshing, though nothing could drive away the embarrassment of what happened last night. He could control his body with an iron will during the day, but it could still betray him at night.

Sitting back on his heels, he shook his head like a wet dog, droplets of water flying in a 360-degree circle around him. It could have been worse. It could have happened in front of the entire regiment. Porthos and Aramis already knew of this...he struggled for a word and settled on weakness. His two friends already knew of this weakness and had kept it to themselves. He hoped no one else would ever learn of it.

With a sigh, he rose, walked back to the camp and accepted the bowl of food offered to him. Slowly, he spooned the food into his mouth, awkwardly using his left hand. While he could fence nearly as well with his left hand as with his right, simple things, such as handling a spoon without spilling its contents, were proving to be more difficult. About halfway through his meal he quit, whether from being full or the frustration of having to use his clumsy left hand, remained unclear.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Porthos asked as he picked up Athos' discarded bowl and began to finish its content.

"Fine."

"Don't know why I ever bother to ask," Porthos grumbled around a mouthful of food.

"We could camp here another night, leave tomorrow, give your wounds a chance to heal," Aramis suggested mildly, though when the rebuff came it was not a surprise.

"No. We leave now. I am fit to travel," Athos proclaimed with finality.

"Well, since experience has taught me you can't be persuaded, we'll leave. But only after I have checked your wounds once more," Aramis declared in a tone that told Athos he too was serious and would not be deterred.

Porthos rose from the ground where he'd been sitting. "I'll pack the gear." He was happy not to have to be involved with the overbearing medic and the stubborn patient.

Eventually, they got on their way with Aramis and Porthos leading the string of stallions. It had been decided, after much debate, that Athos' wounded hand would do best if he didn't use it. So, the swordsman used his left hand to rein his horse and cradled his injured one in his lap. Aramis was also concerned about the bullet wound in Athos right arm, which to him was showing signs of an infection.

They made good time, halting now and then, but mostly maintaining a steady pace. Come nightfall, they stopped and set up a quick camp. Athos showed little interest in dinner and an unappreciated hand on his forehead showed he was running a low fever. Aramis made a tea of willow bark and stood over Athos until the reluctant man drank the entire, bitter drought. After that, the rest of the night passed peacefully with no night terrors.

The next morning found Athos no better and no worse as they set out once more to return the stallions to the Comte Vergy's estate. As the afternoon went on, Porthos began to grow restless, constantly checking the sky.

"We're in for a storm," he finally announced after staring at the sky once more. "It's gonna be a bad one."

Even though the day was still bright and sunny, Aramis had learned not to discount Porthos' weather sense. Maybe it was from growing up on the streets, but Porthos had an amazing, eerie ability to predict the weather. More than once he had warned them in time for them to seek shelter from a nasty weather event.

Athos scanned the sky, twisting to examine the sky in every direction. Aramis, seeing the swordsman looking confused said, "Though the sky may look blue now, I have never known Porthos' weather sense to be wrong. It has saved us many a time from being caught in terrible storms, especially with lightning."

The big man was shaking his head. "This is gonna be bad," he reiterated. "We need to find shelter."

Athos grew thoughtful. If he was not mistaken, there was a lodge not too far away. He and Jourdain had used it a few times. However, he wasn't sure how to direct his friends to the lodge without receiving a lot of probing questions he would rather not answer. So, he remained silent.

As they continued to ride, dark clouds appeared on the horizon and swiftly blotted out the sun. The stallions were now sensing the impending storm and they began to dance and fidget on their lead ropes. The wind rose from a whisper and built towards a roar as the leaves on the trees flipped over and rattled ominously. In the distance, white hot lightening streaked across the sky and the thunder's boom echoed through the forest.

Suddenly, Athos realized that letting his friends and the horses suffer for his foolish pride was stupid. "I know a place, nearby," he yelled over the howling wind. If either of his companions questioned him, it was lost to the wind.

Taking the lead, he confidently led them to a small track that ended at the lodge. There was a large stable adjacent to the lodge and he headed there, drawing to a stop in front of the barn's double door. Though the door was padlocked, it only took Porthos a few minutes after he dismounted to use his skills and open the lock.

The rain began pelting down on them as they swiftly ushered the horses inside. The lightning bolts had increased in frequency and intensity and the thunder booms were so loud they rattled the musketeers' teeth. The winds picked up to what sounded like gale force and shortly after they had the horses arranged in stalls, hail began slamming against the wooden sides of the stable. They had definitely gotten out of the storm just in time. Once again, Porthos' weather sense was spot on.


	29. Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

The contingent of musketeers taking the Spanish prisoners back to Paris for trial was not as fortunate as the Inseparables. The wide-spread storm caught them unaware and they had no chance to seek shelter. This began a chain of events that would lead to much grief.

So far on the trip to Paris, Anton, the Spanish captain, had been a model prisoner and not because his wound was troubling him. His cause for worry more involved a rope and his neck, for there was no way he wouldn't be hanged as a bandit after he arrived in the capital. However, he had no intention of ever seeing the streets of Paris. He was simply biding his time looking for an opportunity to escape, though he realized that even if he managed to get free his future still remained dim.

For Anton, returning to his old position in Spain meant the same thing as going to Paris, death. His own government, after how badly he had botched this mission, wasn't going to allow him to remain alive any more than the King of France would for his crimes on French soil. All because of those damn musketeers. They had ruined everything, especially that arrogant Athos who had the audacity to escape and later injure him. He would love to meet up with the musketeer once more and do what he should have done from the start, kill the man.

The musketeers and their Spanish prisoners had stopped for a rest break when the leading edge of the storm hit them. The horses grew fidgety as the winds picked up and a scattered raindrop or two landed on their sweaty hides. The rumbling of the thunder in the distance added to the foreboding mood.

When they went to mount up, Anton had petitioned, really begged, that they not be tied to their horses given the coming storm and the restlessness of their mounts. DuPort listened to the plea, considered it, and was about to say no when a loud clap of thunder sent the horses into a mild panic making them hard to control and changing his mind. He acquiesced to the request and the Spanish prisoners were allowed to mount and remain unencumbered by ropes.

As they rode along, the storm grew in strength, bending tree limbs in ungodly ways and stripping leaves from the branches. The rain came pouring down next, dropping visibility to a few feet. Anton took advantage of all these distractions and kept reining back his horse further and further until he was near the edge of the procession with only one musketeer behind him.

It was Mother Nature in the end that gave him the final key to escape his captors. Lightning struck a pine tree in front of the column, causing it to burst into flames. A loud crack was followed by the tree trunk splitting and crashing down on musketeers and prisoners alike. Screams of pain from both horses and men competed with the shrieking of the wind as more trees caught on fire and began to topple. Anton and the one musketeer behind him were far enough away that they didn't get hit with the main trunk of the tree that crushed the men in front of them.

A few of the feathery boughs, set on fire by the lightening, did rain down around Anton and the lone musketeer in the rear. One flaming branch dropped on the hindquarters of the musketeer's horse causing the gelding to rear up in pain. The soldier on his back lost his balance and tumbled off the horse to the ground.

Anton didn't waste a moment thinking about anyone other than himself. He wheeled his mount around and started back up the road they'd been traveling as fast as he could push the horse. The wind and rain slapped them in the face and though the gelding was clearly unhappy, Anton, who was an accomplished rider, kept the beast in check and under control.

After a few punishing miles into the face of the storm, he came to a cliff overhang; dismounting, he led his horse underneath the sheltering rock. The respite from the storm was immediate and blessed. He and the horse stood there, dripping and exhausted as the storm raged on around them. As he stood there, soaking wet and trembling, he began plotting his next move. He wasn't going to waste this opportunity he'd been given.

The rest of the party, prisoners and musketeers alike were not so lucky. The fierce storm set off small, localized twister and what the fallen trees and flames didn't kill, the twister did. By the time all was over and the sun poked out from behind the sullen clouds, all but one musketeer had succumbed to the forces of mother nature.

-MMMM-

The Inseparables got the horses settled in the small stable, then shed the outer layer of their own soaked garments and draped them to dry over the stall walls. They had not bothered to move over to the lodge, choosing instead to stay in the stable. At the end of the building was a small living quarters, no doubt for the stable hands, with a few beds, table and chairs. There were four beds in the room, enough for each musketeer to choose his own and gratefully drop down to rest.

After a while, Aramis, always the medic, rose, retrieved his saddlebags and began cajoling Athos to take off his shirt. Athos, who was laying on his cot with his eyes firmly closed, ignored him.

"Athos. Take off your shirt so I can examine your wounds."

The beating of the rain against the stable roof was the only response Aramis received.

"Athos!" he repeated with a touch of irritation creeping into his voice.

Porthos, who's been resting on his back, sat up to watch.

"Honestly, Athos. Why do you persist with this obstinate behavior?"

The swordsman cracked open his eyes then said, "I don't wish to be a burden."

"It will be more of a burden if you fall so ill I gotta carry you," Porthos grouched under his breath. "Or if you give Aramis a heart-attack and I have to carry him." That earned him a glare from both of the other musketeers. "Whaddya glaring at me for? He's being stubborn and you're being a pest. Me, I'm just sitting here watching."

"Well maybe you could assist," Aramis suggested drily.

"How? By tickling him into submission?" Porthos asked with an innocent expression on his face, but mischief in his deep brown eyes.

That did get Athos to react. "There will be no tickling. Not now. Not ever."

"Is that a challenge?" Porthos inquired, swinging his feet off the edge of the cot.

"No," the swordsman replied with an interesting mix of authority and apprehension.

"So, you're going to cooperate?" Aramis asked with a pleasant smile.

Athos started to say no, but when he saw Porthos rise to his feet he changed his mind. "I don't suppose you'd take my word that I am in no immediate danger from any of the minor wounds I am sporting."

"If you believe that is the truth you are telling me, then yes, I will accept your word."

Athos' mouth dropped open a little as he stared at Aramis in disbelief. It couldn't be that easy. In the time he'd known Aramis, the man had never given up that easily.

"You seem surprised that I'm not insisting. It's called trust, Athos. I'm trusting you care enough for yourself, and us, not to underestimate the extent of your injuries. I'm also trusting you are not so pigheaded as to refuse our help. Help from your brothers."

The swordsman continued to stare at Aramis with an unreadable expression on his face. How easily people spoke of trust. If he were to be truthful with himself, which he rarely was when it came to this subject, he knew his fear of letting people in might, perhaps, be a touch irrational. However, he had been hurt by many people in his life, his parents, his brother, his wife and it had made him as skittish as a newly broken colt. He wanted to believe, trust, in these two men. He had no reason not to, for they had shown him nothing but kindness and friendship, and had even kicked his ass when needed. And no matter what, they always had been loyal to a fault. So why couldn't he simply trust them without such an agonizing internal debate?

"Perhaps, it would be..." he started slowly as if he was testing out every word to ensure he had chosen the right one, "prudent...to check the bullet graze on my arm. It might be...a little...sore." With that he began to shrug out of his doublet.

Aramis moved to his saddlebags and began unpack his medical supplies. Porthos went to fetch his own and Athos' bags to see what food supplies they had left. While Aramis worked on Athos' arm, Porthos laid out all the food they had left on the table. The storm showed no sign of abating and it appeared the wise move would be to stay here for the night.

Aramis made unhappy noises as he fussed over Athos' arm. "It is definitely infected." He brushed his fingers across his patient's forehead and as usual, Athos moved his head away. "You have a fever though I think it fairly mild still. I'll make a willow bark infusion."

Wrinkling his nose, Athos said, "Porthos, is there any wine left?"

The streetfighter rummaged around in their bags, coming up empty handed. Athos' sigh was very audible when he saw Porthos sadly shaking his head. "Truly, I am cursed," he muttered.

"Cursed? Far from it. We have food, shelter and good company. What more do we need?" Aramis declared jovially as he finished bandaging the swordsman's wound.

"Wine," Athos answered in a most definitive manner.

After they were settled once more, each with a share of their remaining food, Aramis asked, around a mouthful of food, "How is it you knew of this place, Athos?"

The swordsman inwardly shuddered, even though he knew it was inevitable he would be asked that question. He continued to chew his mouthful of food while he debated what tale to spin, for he certainly wasn't going to tell the truth, that he and Jourdain had used this lodge more than once when they were young men and had gone hunting.

"We rode past it." That wasn't a lie, exactly.

"Seems a bit out of the way to ride by," Porthos said as he glanced up at Athos who had his head down. The large man's glance wandered over to Aramis, who he could tell was not buying into the story either.

Athos raised his head, snorted and said "Spaniards." He stared both his friends in the eye as if daring them to further challenge his explanation.

Aramis seemed like he was going to poke the dragon, but a headshake from Porthos made him bite his tongue and remain silent. Porthos had spent months on the road with Athos and had learned that pushing the swordsman rarely yielded the results desired. Usually it drove the taciturn man deeper into his mental trenches where he built even stronger walls to block out the prying questions. In some cases, it was better to retreat and wait for Athos to make the first advance, something that he was starting to do more often with them as he fought past his trust issues.

"Well, I'm happy you knew it was here," Aramis said cheerfully. "It is not a fit night out for either man or beast. It is much nicer here, under a solid roof, reasonably dry, not dodging lightning, with food and good company than out there. The only thing missing is a good bottle of wine and a warm woman."

Athos rolled his eyes and Porthos, who was reposing on the bedrolls they had laid out, snorted. "Those two items with you two only borrows trouble."

"Ah, but it is trouble worth borrowing," Aramis sighed wistfully as he dreamily stared off into the distance. "Dreaming of a beautiful woman is a worthy and noble pastime." He gracefully dropped onto his own bedroll. "I know Porthos has an unrequited love from his past he still pines for in the lonely darkness of the night. What about you, Athos?"

"Women are why God created wine. And yet, it is still not enough." Abruptly, the object of the inquiry turned his back on them and pulled his hat low over his face.

Again, Aramis looked over at Porthos who shrugged. "Guessin' he had a bad experience," the streetfighter offered up.

The two thought they heard Athos mumble something about hell and damnation, but whatever he said was mostly drowned out by the rain.

"Well, I love women," Aramis declared stoutly as he got comfortable. "I think they are one of God's best works. Tonight, I shall simply have to be content to dream of the fair creatures. Until the morrow, gentlemen."


	30. Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

It was if the storm had hunkered down over their location. Even though morning had come, the sky was nearly as dark and ominous as the night before. One look out the barn door as well as one look at Athos, who was at best semi-conscious, and Aramis and Porthos decided they would stay one more day in their shelter. They spent the day assuring the stallions were comfortable and tending to the fever that had risen in their friend.

By the next morning, the storm had passed leaving behind a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. As they readied themselves and the horses to continue their journey, Porthos, who had been observing Athos, pulled Aramis aside, concern written all over his face.

"He still don't look so good."

Aramis agreed with the assessment of his friend, but knew there was nothing he could so about it. "True. But he isn't going to agree to stay here another day and rest. The only reason he agreed to yesterday was that he couldn't even sit up. It's only half a day's ride back to Comte Vergy's house, I think. He'll be fine enough until we reach there. Then we shall tie him to one of the Comte's four-poster beds until he is well."

"That will be a sight to see," Porthos replied with a chuckle.

Within a short while they were mounted and on their way back to the Comte's estate with his stolen stallions. Porthos and Aramis were leading the string of horses so as not to tax their friend's deteriorating condition. Athos rode a few feet in front of them, his normally relaxed riding posture looking haggard as pain and exhaustion took their toll on his body. Still, he stubbornly clung to his pride and tried to give the appearance that all was well, a subterfuge he wasn't pulling off.

They had been riding for more than three hours when the stallions they were leading suddenly pricked their ears forward and began to grow animated. For whatever reason, sight, sound or smell, the horses knew they were approaching their home. Soon enough, the track leading to the estate came into view and the stallions pulled on their leads as they eagerly stepped onto its worn dirt surface.

A few of the stallions burst forth with neighs of greeting as the road wound between the lush pastures of the estate. Comte Vergy's stablemaster heard the familiar sound and couldn't believe his ears. He stepped out of the stable into the yard and scanned up the drive, almost not trusting what he thought he was seeing. He dispatched one of the stable boys to the house to alert the Comte. He hoped it was what he had been praying for, but the distance was still too great for him to be one hundred percent sure.

The timing of the Comte coming out of his house and the stolen stallions arriving in the yard was perfect. He stepped onto his porch and saw the three musketeers and his beloved horses. Aramis and Porthos led the stallions towards the waiting stablemaster and his assistants. Athos dismounted, secured Roger's reins to a nearby hitch and began to make his way across the yard towards the house. Jourdain limped down the stairs and met the musketeer halfway, his face lit up with delight at seeing his horses returned and his friend, battered, but still alive.

Drawing Roger to a halt, Athos half-slid, half fell off his horse. After he got his bearings, he told Roger to wait, let go the reins and began to walk towards Jourdain. He wanted to remind the man not to overdue it and give him away.

Arms open wide, Jourdain greeted his old friend with a hug. Athos had no choice but to accept this gracious greeting, even though it made him uncomfortable. However, his abused body was not up to a strong hug for when Jourdain's arms wrapped around his abused flesh, waves of pain rippling through him causing him to stumble. The two embracing men swung around 180 degrees trying to avoid falling over.

Without warning, the sound of a shot being fired rent the air and seconds later, Jourdain went lax. In his weakened state, Athos did his best to keep them both upright, but failed and they tumbled into the dirt. The musketeer did his best to shield his friend, twisting so it was his body that hit the ground first.

When the shot rang out, Aramis and Porthos, still mounted, immediately had their pistols in their hands, searching for the gunman. A thin trail of smoke from the discharge was enough to allow the two musketeers to target their man. That and the more obvious fact that he was standing in the open and aiming his second pistol at the two men lying unprotected on the ground.

A few seconds after they landed, Jourdain slid off Athos and when the musketeer looked down at his torso, arms and hands he realized they were covered in blood. Funny, his muddled brain thought. He didn't feel any overwhelming pain as he felt he should, given the amount of blood seeping out of his body. It was then that he realized it wasn't his blood covering his body, but Jourdain's.

The functioning portion of his mind was screaming at him to move and find cover, they were sitting ducks lying in the open. Pushing to his knees, he tried to gather Jourdain in his arms and rise the rest of the way to his feet. Adrenaline coursing through his veins gave him the strength of desperation and he was able to get to his feet with the injured man in his arms. As he slowly turned, looking for an avenue of escape, his eyes lit on the cause of this disaster, Anton, standing and aiming a gun directly at him.

A myriad of emotions flashed through his eyes at the same moment the sound of two more gunshots pierced the air. Like mirror-images, he and Anton simultaneously dropped to their knees, then toppled over sideways.

Aramis' head turned from where he had just shot Anton to where Athos crumpled to the ground. In his head he was praying fervently even as his voice screamed "Athos!" He slid from his horse as did Porthos.

"Go!" Porthos shouted as he pushed the immobile Aramis towards their downed third. "I'll go check that the bastard is dead." Porthos gave the marksman another shove as he moved towards where the Spanish captain lay in the dirt.

Aramis shook himself out of his daze to sprint to Athos' side, dropping to his knees on the ground. Jourdain lay an arm's length away and both men were splattered with blood. As Athos began to struggle to rise, Aramis admonished him to lay still until he could examine him.

Shaking his head, Athos pushed himself into a seated position despite Aramis' efforts to stop him. When Aramis realized Athos was not going to acquiesce, he began to help the man, propping him up with an arm. "Where are you hurt?" the concerned medic asked as his eyes scanned Athos' bloody clothes.

"Not mine. His," Athos panted as he jerked his chin at Jourdain. "He was shot."

"By the first bullet. But the second?" Aramis asked as he slowly moved towards Jourdain.

"Second?" Athos echoed in confusion.

By now, Aramis was on the ground next to Jourdain, who was lying on his left side with his eyes open, though somewhat unfocused. Aramis could see the source of the blood was coming from the lower belly area of the man and he was pretty sure that was the exit site. Leaning over the Comte, he could see what he had surmised, an equally large red stain marking the entry point for the bullet. The medic was surprised to see it was a through and through wound and he briefly wondered where the bullet had ended up if not in Jourdain. However, even though the bullet had hit no bone on its path through the horse breeder, it had torn through all sorts of soft body parts and it was a 'gut' shot. No one survived those. No matter what was done, infection would set in and cause the recipient to suffer a prolonged, painful death.

Aramis looked up and saw Athos' eyes staring at him, questioning, even while knowing the answer to the unasked inquiry. Members of the Comte's household were now in the yard, surrounding the trio. Aramis tore his eyes away from Athos' uncomfortable stare as he rose to his feet.

"You," he said pointing to the nearest manservant, "ride for the nearest doctor. The rest of you need to get the Comte into the house. Get a flat surface, a board, carry him to his bed chambers, strip his clothes and gently bathe him. I'll get my medical supplies and meet you there shortly."

"What about the man that shot him?" one of the household staff cried out.

"He's dead," Porthos said succinctly as he joined them. "The Spanish captain, Anton, is dead."

Porthos moved to support Athos who had shakily climbed back to his feet. They watched in silence as Aramis supervised the careful loading of the Comte onto the flat wooden plank one of the stable hands had produced. Then two strong servants reverently lifted it and made towards the house. Aramis moved back to stand by his two friends as the watched the procession.

"How is he?" Porthos asked quietly glancing over at Aramis. The look on the medic-musketeer's face told the story without words, though the man did answer.

"It's a gut wound. I'm afraid there is nothing to be done but make him comfortable until…" his voice trailed off.

"It should have been me," Athos spoke softly. "It was my back that was to the captain, until I stumbled, from fatigue. Jourdain bolstered me, and we rotated, exposing him to the bullet. I should be the one dying, not him."

"It was an accident, Athos. No one's fault other than that bastard of a Spaniard and he got what he deserved from Aramis," Porthos declared, placing his hands on Athos' shoulders and turning him slightly to face him. "It wasn't your fault."

"And if you don't let me examine and clean your wounds, you very well may join him," Aramis admonished as he too turned to face Athos. "I don't believe all of that blood is the Comte's. If you were facing each other, when the bullet went through Jourdain it must have hit you."

Porthos dropped his hands from Athos' shoulders as Aramis examined the front of the injured man's jacket. He spied what he thought was a new rent in the side of the leather. Pointing out the slit, he stated "The bullet did graze your jacket after leaving Jourdain. Did it score your skin as well?"

Considering all his aches and pains, Athos wasn't sure, but he didn't think the bullet had touched him. "No," he said without a lot of conviction. Knowing he could either do it himself or they'd gladly do it for him, slowly Athos unbuttoned his coat, slid it off and handed it to Porthos. All eyes shifted to his side where there was another rent in the grimy shirt. Athos caught Aramis' eyes for a second, silently asking if he had to continue. Aramis' folded his arms over his chest, giving Athos the answer, he knew he'd get. With a little sigh, he untucked his shirt and raised it enough so that his side was visible.

Gently, Aramis brushed his fingertips over the pale, unblemished skin as if to confirm with his touch what his eyes were telling him. "God must love you for the first bullet scored your jacket and shirt, but didn't touch your skin at all. Miraculous."

"What about the second bullet?" Porthos asked, which earned him a scowl from Athos.

"I believe it too must have missed me."

Thinking about where Anton had been shooting from and where Athos had been, Porthos started examining Athos' left side, but could see no signs of bleeding. "Guess it did miss." Holding out Athos' coat, he helped the swordsman slip it back on. Once it was on, he noticed Athos' pauldron was not settled correctly. As he reached over to fix it, he whistled. "Damn you are lucky. The second bullet hit your pauldron. That's why it's hanging crooked. But it didn't touch your body. Amazing."

Craning his neck, Athos could see what Porthos meant. The bullet had torn a path in the leather shield attached to his shoulder without ever touching his skin. It was amazing.

"Best we get inside and see to the Comte since you appear to be in no immediate peril." Aramis turned and headed for the house with the other two musketeers falling into line.

Athos softly asked as they assisted him in walking along, "There's no hope for him is there."

"Unless God grants another miracle today, no, not with a gut shot. He'll live for a few days if he is unlucky. Better if God is going to take him to heaven He do so expeditiously. Otherwise the pain will be tremendously unpleasant."

Athos folded into himself as he processed what Aramis had said. He had known the truth all along, but he still needed to hear it. He couldn't stop the grief and guilt from nibbling at his soul. Again, he had brought misfortune to those he loved.


	31. Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

The physician came, and went after confirming Aramis' grim prognosis. He left laudanum to help take the edge off the pain before the inevitable, which could take anywhere from an hour to a few days. Jourdain had asked one of his servants to go fetch his cousin, who lived on the far edge of the estate, several hours' ride each way under the best of conditions. Whether or not the cousin would make it in time was anyone's guess, but the servant set off on the fastest horse in the stables.

Aramis attended to Athos' medical needs, then tried to get him to eat and rest but the musketeer refused. Aramis knew Athos was operating on pure adrenaline and would crash, hard, at some point, but there was no persuading him to rest.

Jourdain, wanting some private time with Athos without betraying his past life to the other musketeers, asked for his butler to bring him parchment and writing implements.

"I need to set my affairs in order. I need one of you, who has a neat hand, to write down my last wishes for me for I am too weak to hold the pen steady."

The three musketeers looked at him, then each other. "Athos would be the best for this task," Porthos declared. "His penmanship is by far the clearest. Occasionally, Captain Treville calls upon him to help with the paperwork required to operate the garrison."

"I would, if I could." Athos held up his wounded hand. "But alas this injury would make my writing illegible I fear."

Aramis, knowing that Porthos' writing skills were limited, stepped forward. "I would be honored to assist, Comte Vergy."

Jourdain tried not to wince at his mistake. He had forgotten about Athos' injury. He'd have to come up with another idea to get privacy with Athos without raising suspicion.

"Thank you. However, before we begin, I would hear the end of your tale, Athos. How you escaped from the Spanish." The bedridden Comte gave the other two musketeers a look of expectancy, which Aramis interpreted correctly. For some reason, the Comte wished to speak to Athos, alone.

"Porthos and I have already heard this tale, so we will withdraw to the kitchen for something to eat. Let me know when you are ready for my services," Aramis said gracefully, before offering a little bow of respect and retreating from the room with Porthos and the butler.

"If your goal was to speak privately with me, you have accomplished that," Athos declared with a hint of a smile. "Thank you. For continuing to respect my…secrets."

"They are good men, Athos. I am certain you can trust them with your past," Jourdain said hoping to persuade his stubborn friend to confide in the other two musketeers who he was sure would neither lose respect, nor hurt him.

Pushing aside Jourdain's advice, Athos dragged a small chair closer to the bed. "What do you truly want, for I doubt it is to hear the rest of my tale."

Jourdain stared at his old friend hoping to see a small crack in the hard shell he'd built around himself, but he was only met by Athos' cool, impassive gaze. With a moan that was mostly pain, but partly frustration, he began to ruminate. "I'm dying. Alone. No brothers, sisters, wife or children with whom to leave the estate. My family's lifetime of work breeding horses, great horses, has come to an untimely end."

He lifted his agony-filled eyes to capture Athos' somber green ones. "The only person left in my immediate family is my cousin Bern. He is a fine enough fellow, but has no understanding of horseflesh."

Pausing to take a rattling breath, he slowly exhaled, wincing with pain. "And the thought of my estate being forfeited to the crown. I suppose I could live with that, but not my beautiful horses. My legacy. All I have left to show I existed in this world."

Athos was very uncomfortable for he didn't know how to offer comfort to the man.

"There is one solution that could save my legacy. You, Olivier. The Comte de la Fére. You take over my estate and continue breeding horses. You'd be excellent at it, I know it."

"I had my own estate which I renounced, along with my title," Athos reminded him with a heavy heart, for he couldn't do what his friend wished.

"I understand you don't want to go back there to those unhappy memories. But let yourself start fresh here. Stop punishing yourself. You were born a noble and you will always be one. You can't renounce your heritage! Stay. Continue my work. Breed the best horses in the entire world."

The injured Comte's excitement brought on a bout of coughing that had him spitting up blood and leaving him weak and drained. Athos rose to go get Aramis, but Jourdain waved him to sit.

"No one can help. I have so little time left. Please say you will accept my offer," Jourdain pleaded with all his heart.

It broke Athos' own heart as he dropped back into the chair, whispering, "I am sorry. I cannot. I…," he swallowed, hard, "…not even for you."

A heavy, awkward silence settled over the room as a deflated Jourdain sank back into his pillows with a moan and screwed his eyes closed tight. His beautiful horses. His and his family's years of careful breeding to produce spectacular animals gone…or worse…ruined by some unscrupulous breeder only seeking profits. It was more than he could bear.

"There might, however, be another solution," Athos said slowly as an idea crept into his mind.

Jourdain's eyes flew open in hope. "You'll reconsider?"

Athos shook his head. "Never. But, I know a man, an expert with horses. In Paris. Down on his luck. Working in a stable."

"Is he nobility?" Jourdain asked with confusion, wondering if so, why he was working in a stable.

"No. You cannot leave your estate to him. It wouldn't be accepted."

"And so how does this help save my horses?" Jourdain asked in frustration. "I can't just give them to a nobody who works in a stable."

"The man is Jacob, an ex-soldier, the instructor who taught me to ride. The one my father dismissed because he thought I was not paying proper attention to all my studies," Athos said with noticeable distain.

Jourdain's eyes grew hazy as he searched his fading memories. "I do recall. Jacob, even given his injuries, was an excellent horseman. I had half hoped my father would have offered him employment here...after. Though," he added after a pause, "that wouldn't have been…seemly given our fathers were friends of a sort."

Steering back to the matter at hand, Athos continued, "I recently came across Jacob in Paris. Working in a stable. You can gift this estate to your cousin Bern and have him hire Jacob to continue your breeding program as well as educate your cousin in the ways of equine management."

"My God, Olivier, that could work. Bern and his wife could run the estate if they had someone like Jacob helping with the horses. My precious legacy could live on!"

Another fit of coughing sent painful spasms through Jourdain's body. When it was over, it left him even weaker. "Go. Get Aramis. Let's get this on paper before it is too late."

Aramis and Porthos raised their heads and looked at Athos expectantly when he entered the dining area. They had been speculating as to why Jourdain had wanted to speak to Athos alone. Neither was totally inclined to believe the Comte simply wanted to hear the end of the tale as he had stated.

"You finished your story?" Aramis said breezily as Athos walked over to the table.

Ignoring the comment, Athos solemnly said, "He's ready to record his…wishes."

Athos sank into one of the chairs as exhaustion swept over his body. He folded his arms on the wooden table and dropped his heavy head on top of them.

"Try to eat something, Athos," Aramis suggested as he rose. He was ignored, as he knew he would be by Athos, but Porthos gave a quick nod to say he would try to get the swordsman to follow the advice.

With that, Aramis left the room to write down the dying words of a good man.


	32. Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

"The estate goes to Bern. We have the clause about the hiring of the horse expert. Also, the generous gift of the current geldings to the musketeer regiment," Aramis declared as he scanned the words he had penned.

A hint of a smile adorned the pain-wracked Comte. "They aren't bad animals. They just aren't what we need in the breeding program. You only need so many stallions at one time. And these geldings will be supporting a noble and worthy cause."

Giving a little head tilt in acknowledgment, Aramis said, "His Majesty and Captain Treville will be most honored and appreciative of your generosity." After a short pause he added, "And I have the stipulation involving the Comte de la Fére."

"Yes. An old friend of the family. Bought horses from us for years. Any horse he wants he can have for free, forever."

"Again, a very generous and what could be a costly bequest. What stops this Comte from taking advantage of your kindness?" Aramis wanted to make sure the dying man's mind was not becoming muddled, causing him to make poor decisions.

"The Comte de la Fére is one of the finest men I have ever had the privilege to know. He won't take advantage of my offer, in fact, he probably won't avail himself of it at all. He is as loyal as he is stubborn."

"Then, if you are done, you need to sign." Aramis motioned to the servant discreetly standing by the doorway to help prop up the dying Comte so he could sign his last will and testament.

Gasping, Jourdain shakily held the quill and in a wobbly script, he signed the bottom of the document. When it was done, he dropped the quill on the bed and fell towards the pillow with the servant easing his descent as much as possible.

It was then that two new shadows appeared in the doorway. "Your cousin has arrived, Comte Vergy"

A tall gentleman stepped into the room and headed for the bed where the Comte lay. "Jourdain!" he desperately whispered when he saw his cousin's condition. "I couldn't believe what your servant told me. Shot. By a Spaniard. In your own front yard. What is the world coming too?"

"I'm afraid I won't be here much longer to know. That's why I asked you to come. Shortly, I will be dead."

Bern's hand covered his mouth in horror. "No. It can't be. Did you call the doctor? Did you..."

But Jourdain held up a weak arm to silence his cousin. "It's true."

As if still hoping for another verdict, Bern looked over at Aramis, imploring him with his eyes to deny the harsh truth.

Aramis slowly shook his head. "I am sorry, Monsieur."

Bern turned back to stare at his cousin in shock. He opened and closed his mouth a number of times, but no words came forth.

"Time is fleeting. We must talk swiftly before the hourglass runs out. I am leaving my estate and horses to you, to keep in operation."

The confused look on Bern's face grew even larger. "I don't understand. I already live here, in the chateau with my wife and children. We are happy. We want no more."

Even though the pain was getting to the point of being intolerable, a small smile graced Jourdain's face. Bern was a good man. He, his wife and children lived happily as his cousin had stated. Never asking for more, they were content with their lot. Leaving the estate to him was the right thing to do.

"And you have never asked for more. But this isn't you asking. This is me giving. Freely. And the only thing I ask is you continue my breeding program." Jourdain saw the distress in his cousin's face deepen.

"I know nothing about breeding horses!"

"You will learn. Let me tell you about the provision in my will."

Aramis took that as his cue to depart. "If you need anything I shall be nearby," he said to the Comte with a small bow as he left the room.

Jourdain looked past his cousin at the departing musketeer. "Thank you, Aramis, for all you have done. You, Porthos and Athos are lucky to have each other. Take care of him." Aramis gave Jourdain a strange look, then simply nodded. There was truly more here than met the eye and he had a feeling he'd never learn the whole of it.

Jourdain's eyes shut for a few seconds as he regathered his strength, then he opened them and began telling Bern about his wishes for the estate. Aramis quietly left the room, went back downstairs and joined his friends in the dining area. Athos' head was still resting on his arms and the marksman thought him to be asleep. However, he was proven wrong. As he headed around the oak table towards where Porthos was residing, he heard a tired voice speak one word in inquiry.

"Jourdain?"

Aramis dropped into a chair across the table from Athos before he answered. "His cousin is with him now."

Wearily, Athos raised his head and stared at Aramis, demanding he answer the question Athos hadn't asked.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, the medic unconsciously pulled at the tip of his beard before dropping his hand in his lap. "Not long. A few hours perhaps."

Angst flashed in the green eyes staring at him and Aramis could practically feel the waves of guilt and remorse washing over Athos. "It's not your fault, Athos."

As Aramis knew would happen, Athos dropped his head onto his forearms once more, ignoring him. Aramis glanced at Porthos, who was using a knife to pare sections off an apple. Aramis opened his mouth to expound on his declaration but he stopped when he saw Porthos give a quick head-shake. "Let 'im be for now. Won't do no good."

After about thirty minutes, Aramis suggested they move to the drawing room where it would be more comfortable to wait. Porthos agreed, rose, shook Athos awake and shepherded him into the other room. The half-asleep swordsman stumbled to a settee, dropped onto it and promptly rolled on his side and went back to sleep. The other two musketeers took chairs flanking an open window where a slight breeze was filtering through. They quietly talked and dozed as the sun peaked then headed for the horizon. Twice Aramis checked on Jourdain and each time came back looking grimmer than the last. Even though it always seemed Athos was dozing, the minute Aramis stepped back into the drawing room from checking on Jourdain, Athos' eyes would open and seek him out to see if a miracle had occurred. When the stricken swordsman realized it had not, he shut his eyes once more and blocked out the world.

A servant came by to offer them light refreshments and Aramis instructed him to set them on the buffet by the door. Porthos availed himself of the food and Aramis had a small plate, but Athos ignored the repast like every other external stimulus around him. He continued to lie on the settee as if he were a moth in a cocoon, brooding, still and silent.

Just before dusk there was a creak on the stairs before a shadow darkened the doorway of the drawing room. Porthos, Aramis and miraculously Athos rose and turned to face the figure.

"He has passed," Bern said softly before bowing his head. "It is a blessing. He was in much pain…at the end. Now he is in his savior's hands in heaven."

Aramis mumbled a prayer, crossed himself, then touched his crucifix to his lips before tucking it away.

"We'll bury him in the morning, if you'd be so kind as to assist," Bern continued, as he wiped the back of his hand across his damp eyes.

"Of course," Porthos rumbled. "He was a good man."

Bern raised his head and nodded. "Yes. Yes, he was. He was good, kind and had trust in his fellow man. Perhaps too much trust. God knows he has trusted to put both a blessing and a trial in my lap. Living here in this beautiful place and taking care of his magnificent animals. I know how to ride, feed and care for them, but produce the wonderful specimens like he does…"

"I can assure you, on my honor, that the man I know in Paris is a genuine expert and will be able to guide you in your endeavors," Athos spoke up.

Bern shifted his eyes to the disheveled musketeer. "Athos, is it?" After the swordsman gave a slight head tilt, the cousin continued. "Jourdain said you'd be of assistance. How is it you know of this horse expert in Paris."

Without hesitation, Athos answered, "I met him in my…travels."

Aramis's eyes narrowed as he studied Athos. True, the man had answered promptly, but the little hesitation at the end of the comment made the marksman think Athos was not being totally forthcoming about how he knew this horseman.

Bern, however, was satisfied and went on. "Jourdain also said that you'd be able to help get a message to the Comte de la Fére. My cousin has left him, well I don't quite know how to explain it. An open invitation to take horses from the estate." Bern searched his memories, for something about the de la Fére name sounded vaguely familiar. Finally, it came to him. "I believe the de la Féres were friends of my cousin's family. There was a son or two, one that came here to visit Jourdain sometimes I believe. I met him once I suppose, but I really have no recollection of him other than he was quiet."

The nervous sweat dripping down Athos' back was making his shirt damp even if the rest of him seemed cool and calm. He would not have recognized Bern, had Jourdain not said who he was, so he doubted he would be recognized in return. It seemed luck was on his side in this matter. However, Aramis did file that interesting tidbit away. There was still more here than met the eye.

Breaking out of his contemplations, Bern asked, "So, you can get a message to the Comte de la Fére about what happened and my cousin's bequest?"

Athos gave a small nod.

"Thank you. Jourdain," Bern swallowed hard, "is being prepared. By his servants. I shall ride back and fetch my family to attend his burial in the morning. Could I impose further upon you musketeers to stay here tonight. To, I don't know, watch I suppose. Such strangeness has occurred I don't know what to think."

"We will gladly stay here and keep things on track while you fetch your family." Aramis assured him. "Tomorrow, after all is done, we will gather the King's horses and be on our way. We will be sure that the money due from the King is faithfully delivered to you, Monsieur. The King is a man of his word."

Bern started running his hand through his hair. "This is all so overwhelming. I am simply overcome…I don't know what to think. The Spanish raiding French estates. Killing innocent people. Jourdain never hurt a fly in his life. He loved his horses and his family. Now, all are gone."

Aramis walked over, placing a gentle hand on the distraught man's arm. "This is a large shock. With time, it will dull. And your cousin left you with his legacy, his horses. I know you will do him proud. Now, before it gets any later, ride for your home. Would you like one of us to accompany you?"

Bern started as if the thought of riding alone, after dark, could be risky. "Is there still danger?"

"The man who killed your cousin is dead, though I do not know how he came to end up back here. Last we saw he was under musketeer guard on his way back to Paris for hanging. I know not how he came to escape, nor if any others also escaped for that matter. So perhaps, it is best if one of us rides with you, just to be safe."

"I'll go," Porthos spoke up quickly, not giving anyone else a chance. Athos was in no condition, though he doubted that would have stopped the man from saying he'd go. And if there were any medical issues to deal with tonight, he'd rather Aramis be here to look after Athos.

"It's settled," Aramis quickly agreed, having similar thoughts to Porthos'.

Athos turned on his heel, left the room and disappeared. Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other uneasily.

"Come on. Let's get goin'" Porthos addressed Bern. The two men, with Aramis is tow, left the house and headed to the barn to saddle up the horses. As they stepped off the porch, they saw Athos standing at one of the fences, gazing out over the expanse of green grass and the mares peacefully grazing.

After Bern's and Porthos' horses were saddled and they rode off into the twilight, Aramis wandered over to stand by Athos, who was leaning with his back against the fence watching them depart up the road.

"It's hard to believe, all that has happened, in such a short time," Athos whispered as he remembered riding up that same drive little more than a week ago. Jourdain had been alive…then. Now he was dead and Athos knew he played a large part in the disaster. Had he only killed Anton when he had the chance, Jourdain would still be alive. Curses to justice. He should have employed the biblical eye for eye when he first had a chance.

Aramis, who was getting better at sensing the brooding Athos' moods, decided to take a stab at what he thought the closed-off man was thinking. "Jourdain's death is not your fault."

"Like hell it isn't," Athos growled as he turned back towards the horses and leaned his arms on the fence. "I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance. Then Jourdain would still be alive."

"But Athos. We are not the hand of justice. That is the King. We are merely the deliverers."

"And I should have delivered a bullet to the bastard's heart."

It wasn't that Aramis didn't agree on many levels with Athos' sentiments, but he also knew from his years of service that it wasn't what they were supposed to do. Though he'd been tempted, and if the truth be told more than tempted, to administer his own justice once or twice. But it wasn't right and Athos was too new to this game to be straying down that forbidden path. So, he held a firm line and used Athos' Achilles heel against him.

"It would not have been honorable."

Athos spun to glare at Aramis, but in doing so, over-stressed his weakened body and his legs turned to jelly. He landed hard on the ground and was unable to suppress a moan. Immediately, Aramis was by his side on the grass. Athos rolled onto his back and stared in a dazed manner up at the marksman.

"Are you hurt?"

The green eyes blinked once or twice to clear the fogbank. "I am no more hurt than I was a minute ago."

"That's not saying very much."

Aramis rose and extended a hand to help Athos back on his feet. The swordsman kept one hand on the fence and one on Aramis' arm until the world stopped tilting and turning.

"Can you make it back up to the house?"

"Of course." Athos let go of Aramis and the fence and took a step forward. It wasn't the least bit graceful and he almost thought he might kiss the dirt again. "It might, however, take me a while," he declared ruefully. "It would be quicker, perhaps, if you were to …assist.

Without comment, Aramis secured Athos' arm again and they began their shaky trek across the yard.

"Once inside, you'll strip, I'll examine your wounds, clean, stitch or do whatever is necessary. You will wash off some of that grime, then dinner and bed."

"What no story?" Athos asked sarcastically.

"Perhaps. If you are well-behaved, which we both know is not likely."

"Wonderful," Athos said wryly. "Any chance of just leaving me out here with the horses?"

They stopped for a moment as Aramis turned to stare at Athos. "You know, Porthos isn't the only one with a mean right hook. I don't like to display my violent side, but I will, if circumstances call for it."

Athos' eyes narrowed as he tried to gauge how much of what Aramis said was a joke and how much a threat. Deciding it was more threat than joke, he gave a final scowl, but continued on walking slowly towards the house.

Aramis gave him a light pat on the back with his free hand. "Thought you might see it my way."


	33. Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

The funeral was a quiet affair. Bern arrived back at the estate with his family in tow and three servants, which by the look of things, probably represented the majority of his household. Comte Vergy's staff were all in attendance and his neighbor to the east, who heard what happened from one of the servants, also arrived with his family. The three musketeers were there in full regalia, blue cloaks fluttering in the breeze, which was doing little to cool things off. Even though the sweat was running like a river down their spines, they stood straight and tall, honoring a good man who had died too soon.

After the last clod of earth was placed in the grave, everyone went back to the house for a simple meal. The servants retired to the kitchen and the rest of the guests ate in the dining area. Again, conversation was muted and interspersed with long periods of silence.

Porthos ate with his usual abandonment, while Athos concentrated on the wine bottle. When he went to refill his glass a third time, having yet to consume anything solid, Aramis made a point of moving the wine bottle out of reach and placing a plate of food under the swordsman's nose. The action was noted and frowned upon, but not totally ignored.

After the meal, the few guests departed and Bern and his family sat down with some of Jourdain's servants to discuss matters of the new household. The musketeers went out to the barn to check over their mounts and ready their packs to leave in the morning. Afterwards, they leaned on the fence and watched the mares and their foals frolic in the lush green pasture. In the evening, they spent a little time conversing with Bern and the head of the stables before turning in for the night.

They rode out the next morning quietly bidding farewell to Bern and a few members of the staff whom they'd come to know over the course of their visit. The four palominos for the King and Queen were presented to the departing musketeers. Their coats gleamed in the morning sun, white manes and tails tangle free and flowing like rivers of milk. Each musketeer took one lead rein except Porthos, who took a second. Flip, contrary to his name, was quiet, mild-mannered and easy going and having two horses trailing him wasn't going to cause more than an occasional ear flick.

They rode at a brisk, though reasonable pace. The four carriage horses were well conditioned and had no issues keeping up with the musketeer's horses who were used to traveling. The morning sun gave way to grey clouds and by the time they were ready to halt for the day and set up camp it was drizzling.

The drizzle kept up all night and, like a wet blanket, wrapped itself around them and seeped into their bones. The grey light of dawn saw the changeover to rain, which stayed with them for the rest of the journey. The roads became sodden, the dirt turning to mud and the once shiny horses for their Majesties were filthy. The musketeers realized their mounts were equally muddy, but their dark coats made it less obvious.

The rain was an unwelcome companion all day and by night they were praying they'd come to shelter of some kind. It didn't even have to be an inn, a decent overhang of any sort would have done, anything to get out of the rain, but it wasn't in the cards. They had a quick debate on whether to ride through the night, as it wouldn't be any more miserable than trying to sleep in the rain. But good sense won out. If they harmed the horses for their Majesties, they'd never be forgiven by the King, nor by the ghost of Jourdain, who'd probably come back to haunt them for harming his precious livestock.

By the end of the second day of rain, even the horses appeared dejected, plodding along, struggling on some patches of road to pull their filthy hooves out of the clingy mud. After another miserable night in the damp, they woke to see the sun rising and not a cloud in sight. At first this seemed like a blessed respite. However, as the sun rose, its heat turned the residual moisture into steam, making the French forest into a tropical locale. The mud on the horses dried to a crisp and flaked off, but the palominos were still a dingy grey from the dust that replaced the mud.

The small band of men and horses were a sorry sight as they stood on a small grassy knoll overlooking one of the gates of Paris proper.

"Home," declared Aramis with wistful breath.

Porthos, who was standing in his stirrups stretching, said, "Since when do you consider Paris home. I could, as I was born there. But you was born in the country. And he was," Porthos gazed over at Athos, "I don't know where he was born."

Of course, a more social person might pick up on the implied question and politely answer. But though Athos picked up on the subtle query, he ignored it. So, Aramis asked him point blank.

"And where were you born, Athos?"

The swordsman threw him an unreadable glance, but did answer. "France."

Porthos rolled his eyes and snorted at Athos' non-answer.

"Well thank our Lord for that piece of good news. For a moment I was worried you were an Englishman. I'm not sure how the King of France would like that fact."

"The King's sister is married to the King of England," Athos reminded him dryly.

"Family is to be tolerated. Personal guards, I suspect, are another matter."

Porthos plopped back into his saddle. "If you two are done, I'd like to get back to the garrison to food and a bed."

Without further ado, they began riding towards the gate and passed through with no issues. Once in the city proper, they shortened the lead reins on the palominos and began making their way through the narrow streets. As always when it got hot, the unpleasant smells of life in a crowded environment drifted to their noses. The four country-bred horses snorted a few times as if trying to clear the offensive smells from their nostrils.

"You'll get used to it," Paris-born Porthos chuckled as he heard the horses snorting.

When they were about a mile out from the Palace grounds, Athos reined his horse to a stop. The others pulled up too and looked expectantly at him. Slowly, Athos nudged Roger closer to Fidget and held out the lead rein, clearly expecting Aramis to take it, which he did with a puzzled glance.

"Is something wrong?" the marksman inquired as he quickly scanned Athos and Roger for some physical problem.

"You two deliver the horses to the Palace," Athos commanded, sounding every bit like a leader of men expecting his orders to followed without comment. That of course did not happen.

"You'll not be joining us? Surely this will do good for our reputation, bringing these beautiful horses to their Majesties," Aramis declared, though after he took a look at the palominos he added, "Well, they will be beautiful after they are groomed."

"Gonna take a lot of grooming to get 'em pretty," Porthos interjected with a toothy grin. "Those stable boys are going to be scrubbing their manes and tails for days to get 'em white again."

While Porthos has been adding his comment, Athos had turned Roger's head to the left preparing to depart.

Seeing Athos leaving, Aramis quickly asked, "And where are you going?"

Athos stopped and shifted to face the other musketeers. "The Comte's will had specific instructions. I swore to convey his wishes to the horseman in Paris."

Taking advantage of the subject being raised again, Aramis attempted to dig for more information. "It's fortunate you knew of this knowledgeable horseman." He paused, though not for long because he knew by now the swordsman would not accept the opening to converse further. So, he bluntly asked, "How is it you know of him?"

Aramis swore he saw an amused twinkle for a moment in the green eyes coolly surveying him. "I do know a few other people...besides you two."

Porthos, who was not without curiosity of his own, declared, "Yeah, like the other Comte. What was his name? The one that can have horses any time. De la something?"

Aramis, who did remember the name Jourdain mentioned, remained silent to see if Athos would answer and surprisingly, he did.

"De la Fére," Athos said in clipped tones.

"You know him? Or of him?" Aramis pried at the door that Athos had cracked opened.

He got that looked again from Athos. "You seem to assume, for some odd reason, that I am an acquaintance of all the nobility of France."

"You do speak with a certain distinction and are educated," Aramis pointed out.

It wasn't the first time it had been observed that his speech patterns were atypical. But Athos ignored that part of the sentence and commented on the latter. "Everyone with an education in this country is not nobility. You, yourself, are well educated, and yet are not one of the aristocracy."

With finality, Athos turned from his companions and headed off into the city. The remaining two musketeers watched for a few moments in silence before Aramis said, "Do you suppose he is nobility?"

"He's smart enough, well-spoken, and has that air about him. But if he is, why hide it?"

"Disagreement with his family? Perhaps the youngest born, kicked out for monetary reasons? Some sort of family disgrace? A dalliance with someone of the fairer set gone wrong."

Before Aramis could go on, Porthos cut him off. "Wondering is fine but it doesn't get these horses delivered or me to my food and bed. If he's got something to tell us he will or he won't."

With a grin, Aramis nodded his head. "Truer words were never spoken. Let's go deliver these horses and bask in the praise for a job well-done."


	34. Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

As it turned out praise was not what the two musketeers received when delivering the four Palominos. Timing is everything and theirs turned out to be extremely poor. As they rode into the Palace's side courtyard by the stables, the King and the Cardinal were coming out of the door to get into a waiting carriage. They stopped in their tracks and stared at the bedraggled men and horses.

"What are those things?" the King asked as he eyed the group with distain.

With his ever-present smirk and smarmy voice, the Cardinal replied, "I believe that is two of Your Majesty's finest leading what appear to be horses."

Cocking his head to one side, the King studied the filthy animals. "Horses? They are quite dirty and disgusting. Why would I want those things?"

By now, Aramis and Porthos had dismounted, offered up a bow to their King, and were waiting for permission to speak.

"Why have you brought those _animals_ into my clean courtyard," King Louis demanded of his men.

"These are the horses Your Majesty purchased from Comte Vergy. To draw your Majesties' royal carriage," Aramis declared with a little flourish of his hand.

The King turned to look at the Cardinal, who reminded him, "I'm sure your Majesty recalls a few months back. When the Duke of Savoy came for a visit."

"How could I forget," the King said with a scowl. "His visits are always so enjoyable. I simply don't see what my sister sees in that prick."

"As your Majesty well-knows, your sister sees a very important alliance and does her duty for France, with that prick as you put it."

A small fond smile replaced the King's scowl. "She always was a good and dutiful sister and loyal citizen of France."

"On that visit, you admired the Duke's carriage horses as well as the mount he brought for the hunt."

"I did, didn't I. There is little to nothing to admire about that man, but those horses were magnificent. The hunter was a prime specimen. Agile, intelligent, muscular. And the leg action, on those carriage horses, when they trotted. It appeared as if their knees would scrape the sky. Finely shaped heads too."

"And I am sure your Majesty recalls asking about their breeding and being told it was one of your own, loyal citizens of France, Comte Vergy, who had bred the animals and sold them to the Duke."

The scowl reappeared on the King's face. "The gall of that man to buy my French horses. Though, perhaps I can forgive him for wanting quality, not like what I am sure they breed in that tiny little grubby state of Savoy."

"And," the Cardinal continued as if the King hadn't interrupted, "Your Majesty vowed to get a more impressive set of carriage horses for the Queen, as a gift for her birthday celebration."

The King had ordered such a large number of lavish presents for his Queen that the gift of the four carriage horses had slipped his mind. Until now. Turning rapidly, he stalked up to the musketeers who stood holding the patiently waiting horses.

"Do you gentlemen know the date of your Queen's birthday?" he asked in a tone that spoke of more than just idle curiosity.

Aramis, who had been one of the guards at her Majesty's birthday party last year, thought for a moment. "This month?"

"Two days past to be precise," the King informed the musketeers. "And do you know what was missing at her birthday party?"

While Aramis was tempted to say 'me', he didn't think that would be a wise move. Quietly he said, "No, sire."

Turning to the Cardinal, he repeated the same question. The Cardinal made a show of thinking for a second. Then slowly and deliberately, he answered, "Your Majesty made arrangements to buy the Queen the most magnificent set of matched carriage horses from the best breeder in France. A tribute to your love and her beauty. They were to go with the new carriage your Majesty bought to present to the Queen at the royal birthday celebration."

"Absolutely correct, Cardinal. And how did that work out?" the King asked.

The Cardinal painted a grave look on his face. "Not as well as one would have hoped. About midway through the party, you took the Queen and your distinguished guests outside, to this very courtyard, to present the Queen with her gift. But alas, the carriage stood here, alone."

"And why was that?" the King prodded.

"As we can now see, it was a severe failure of duty. Your Majesty's musketeers, whom you trusted with this important task, let you down."

"There were extenuating circumstances, your Majesty," Aramis interjected, unable to remain quiet.

But the King waved his hand indicating he didn't wish to hear. "The Cardinal is right. I was gravely disappointed, humiliated even, not being able to present a complete gift to my deserving Queen. And in front of all of those guests. Do you know how stupid a carriage looks without horses? Not to mention it doesn't roll well."

Even though they were seething on the inside, both Porthos and Aramis gave small apologetic bows.

"We beg your Majesty's forgiveness for not delivering the horses on time. It was not our intention to place you in a less than stellar position." Aramis attempted to placate his irritated monarch

The King glared at both musketeers. "And yet you did. And when you do show up, very much late, you bring me four disgusting looking creatures. It looks as if you took them to a pig-wallow and allowed them to roll in it. I am not even sure there are horses under all that filth."

"I can assure your Majesty that there are horses under all that dirt. The most magnificent set of matching palominos you have ever seen. Nothing in all of France compares. A perfect gift for a perfect Queen," Aramis exclaimed with gusto.

The King appeared unconvinced and after giving a small sniff, he said, "We shall see. After what I paid, there better be. And you better not have injured them in any way on the journey here."

Aramis gave the King one of his easy smiles. "They have suffered no harm other than a little dirt. They are in splendid health. Comte Vergy had them well-conditioned."

"Well if these horses are as wonderful as I have been told I will personally invite the Comte Vergy to visit me at court," the King declared.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged worried glances, not sure if they should be the ones to break the news to the King of what had happened or leave it to Captain Treville. Luckily, the decision was removed from their hands.

"Sire, we really must be going or we'll be late," the Cardinal reminded the King who turned and looked at him.

"Yes. You are indeed correct." Addressing the musketeers, he added, "I am very disappointed in your tardiness. I shall be speaking to your Captain Treville." With that, he joined the Cardinal, who had already climbed into the waiting carriage. With a crack of the whip, the carriage jerked forward and rolled out of the courtyard.

"That didn't go very well," Aramis said as he and Porthos walked their charges over to the stable lads who led them away.

"You can say that again. Ya think the Captain's gonna punish us?" Porthos asked as they made their way back to their own mounts.

"I would hope not. I don't see how any of this is our fault," Aramis answered as he swung onto his horse.

"I dunno. Somehow every time we think that, we get in trouble anyways," Porthos grumbled as he too mounted and they began to head back towards the garrison.

"Well let's hope Athos' mission went more smoothly than ours just did."

Porthos glanced over at his friend with a grin. "Guess it can't go much worse. At least he missed being reprimanded by the King while that smiling red-coated toad gloated in the background."

"Be careful speaking words like that of the Cardinal…even if it is the truth. They say he has ears everywhere," Aramis warned mockingly. "He is the second most powerful man in France I hear."

Snorting, Porthos replied, "What could he care about us. He hates the musketeers and wants us gone."

"And we best be careful not to give him any ammunition." Changing the subject, Aramis pondered, "I wonder how Captain Treville will take our news?"

"Somehow I don't think he's gonna be really happy with us," Porthos predicted correctly.


	35. Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

Athos halted Roger on the far side of the street wondering if he was an idiot to do this now. Maybe, it would have been better to wait for a few days before keeping his promise to Jourdain. Physically, he didn't feel up to this task, with his body basically aching from head to toe. Mentally, he was no better prepared, but then honestly, he doubted he ever would be ready. It was dredging up memories from the past, painful ones that he'd rather remained buried.

Glancing across at the stable, he spotted Jacob coming out of the shadows, leading a saddled horse. Pangs of guilt shot through his already abused body making him want to turn and run away from everything, the situation, the musketeers, his life of lies. Where had he gone so wrong in his life to have such punishment heaped upon him, his guilt-wracked mind questioned.

The shamefaced musketeer watched as the owner of the horse Jacob had been holding came out of the tavern door, drunk and stumbling. Clumsily, the man made his way over to his horse, ripped the reins from Jacob's hand before drunkenly stumbling against the beast's side. The horse whinnied its distress, but like a well-trained beast, stood still as its owner awkwardly clawed his way up onto its back. As the sloshed rider plopped into the saddle, he simultaneously jerked hard on the reins while slapping his heels into the side of the horse. Receiving mixed signals, the horse didn't know what was expected of it so it danced sideways and tossed its head.

Jacob, unable to stand by and watch the innocent animal be abused, stepped forward, reaching for the reins with the thought to calm the horse and then jerk the inebriated rider from the saddle and make him walk home. However, the rider had other ideas, and grabbing the short whip attached to his saddle, he began to flog both the horse and Jacob. The reins were once again ripped from Jacob's hands as the horse bolted from the stable yard trying to escape the cruelty of the biting leather. As the animal rushed by, he brushed against Jacob hard enough to knock him to the dirt. Jacob took no harm from the fall, other than maybe his pride, but he had long ago lost most of that so it was inconsequential. He sat in the dirt for a moment, watching as the drunk careened down the street and once again thought how unfair life was for both man and beast.

Athos had sat quietly, watching the events unfold, knowing that any interference on his part would not be appreciated. It was killing the man-of-action to sit idly by, watching his ex-instructor being treated so unfairly, especially knowing it was his fault the man was where he was in life. Had Athos' father not sacked the man, who knows what his lot in life would have been today. But the Comte de la Fére had not approved of the growing friendship between the ex-soldier and riding instructor and his impressionable son. As the lessons grew beyond horsemanship, the Comte hadn't approved of the ideals the commoner was instilling in his son, the future Comte de la Fére. The philosophy and art of war, tactics and techniques Jacob had begun to teach went way beyond what a Comte needed to know and this worried the Comte de la Fére for he could see his restless and curious son was taking too much interest in the teachings of this man.

The Comte knew that for some reason, even at a young age, Olivier struggled against his heritage in a way that bewildered his father. From time to time, the Comte had even wondered if the boy was truly his son, though he had no cause to fault his wife's faithfulness. Plus, the boy did bear a strong physical resemblance to his ancestors, even if at times there was a strange awkwardness about him; something he either outgrew or simply got better at hiding as he got older. Erring on the side of caution, he had fired Jacob, the ex-soldier riding instructor, and hired a more gentile man. Not wishing Jacob's liberal and sometimes shocking ideals to be associated with him, the Comte had refused the man a reference, thereby shutting the door of opportunity to the man for many positions.

And so, Athos thought as he watched Jacob slowly climb back onto his feet, the excellent horseman had been relegated to work in a common stable where his talents and expertise where clearly not appreciated. Gathering his courage, he lightly pressed his heels to Roger's black flank as his steered the horse across the street towards the stable. A bead of nervous sweat trickled down his spine, even though he could not conceive Jacob recognizing Athos the musketeer as the boy Olivier.

Jacob watched as the black stallion and his rider made their way towards the entrance of the stable. Even from his position, he could see the horse was a superior piece of horseflesh and had it not been for the pauldron on the rider's shoulder, he would have thought the haggard, scruffy, fatigued-looking man had stolen the beast. But a musketeer could have access to quality horseflesh.

The musketeer drew to a halt, clumsily dismounted, then stood next to the horse surveying him with his cool green eyes. Jacob had already ascertained that the man standing in front of him was most-likely an accomplished horseman, well deserving of the animal he rode. The awkwardness being displayed by the rider was attributable to his beaten condition, not his horsemanship and it made Jacob wonder what had happened to this musketeer standing in front of him.

"Can I help you?" Jacob asked the musketeer. "With the garrison just on the other side of the city, I can't be thinking you'd want to stable that magnificent animal in the likes of this place."

"What you say is true, though I suspect the owner of this establishment would not be appreciative of your sentiments, no matter how true they might be," Athos replied wryly.

Jacob ducked his head, embarrassed that once again his tongue had gotten the better of him. Hadn't his wife told him often enough, and rightly so, that his opinions, right or wrong, were best left unsaid. "Aye, you'd be right. Pardon my words, Monsieur."

"No offense was taken," Athos assured the man, "for your words were just and true," as always, he added silently in his head. "I come here seeking a man named Jacob Devired. Would that be you?" Athos asked even though he knew the answer well enough.

"Aye. That be me. How is it a musketeer knows the name of a lowly stable hand. I have a feeling a man of the law knowing my name cannot be a good tiding."

A small smile tugged at the left corner of Athos' mouth. "Have you done something that I, as a musketeer to his Majesty, should be concerned about?"

Shaking his head side-to-side, Jacob emphatically said, "No. While my mouth sometimes runs off on its own, it's naught but idle chatter. I am a lowly stableman, working to provide a roof and food for my wife and children."

Dropping Roger's reins knowing the beast would stand still and wait for him, Athos withdrew a letter out of the inside of his leather jacket, walked over and handed it to Jacob, who reluctantly accepted the crinkly paper.

"It is a letter, from the Comte Vergy, asking you to come to his estate and attend his horses."

Though Jacob had broken open the wax seal and unfolded the missive, he stared at Athos, not the letter in his hand. "Even one such as I know that Comte Vergy breeds the best horses in all of France. In fact, if I were to be bold, I'd suggest that the animal you are riding is one of his breeding."

Athos, who was standing near Roger's head, reached over and rubbed the velvety muzzle eliciting a soft snort of pleasure from the horse. "You are a keen judge of horseflesh for he is one of the Comte's breeding, though that is a fact I'd rather not have known," and the horseman nodded to show he understood and would abide by the musketeer's wishes.

"I'm still shocked and puzzled by this summons," Jacob said slowly as he looked down and began to read the short letter in his possession. "It says I'm to go to the estate, with my family, and take over as the head stableman in charge of the breeding program of all the horses on the estate. I will be given free room and board as well as a salary commensurate with my position." Looking up at the musketeer, he shook his head and shoved the letter back towards him. "This is wrong. This is not for me."

Athos refused to accept the letter being thrust at him. "It is no mistake. I was specifically tasked, by Comte Vergy himself, to deliver this to you."

"But the Comte doesn't need a person like me to help him breed his magnificent horses."

With a sigh, Athos dropped his eyes to the ground as he rubbed a weary hand over his face. "But alas, he does," the musketeer said solemnly, the hurt clearly evident in his hoarse voice. "Comte Vergy is dead. He has no family, no sons, no brothers, only a cousin to take over his estate and his horses. The cousin, while a good and noble man, barely knows the end of the horse that eats from the end that doesn't. Left to his own devices with the horses, all soon will be in wrack and ruin. Comte Vergy has heard of your prowess and upon his death bed, willed the estate to his cousin and the stewardship of his horses to you. I can assure you, for I was there, that the cousin is delighted with this arrangement and looks forward to your swift arrival."

The stunned expression still covered Jacob's face as he just couldn't believe this stroke of luck. Once more he whispered, "But why me?"

Athos, who damn-well knew why, kept the reason to himself only answering, "The Comte was very specific that it be you and only you."

Jacob, for want of anything else to do, folded the letter, still in a state of disbelief. "You are a musketeer so, I have to believe what you speak is truth, though the oddest truth it is. What this will mean to me and my family is unmeasurable. For all the bad luck I have had, this single piece of paper will wipe it all away.

"I am sure it is…well-deserved," Athos declared with such conviction that Jacob's head rose to study him in a manner that made the musketeer nervous.

"I don't know why, but I feel as if we have met before," Jacob declared as he continued to study the man in front of him

Shaking his head as he turned Athos said, "You need to head to the estate as soon as possible." Mounting Roger, he began to turn the horse away.

Jacob quickly stepped forward and grabbed the leather rein nearest to him. Roger tossed his head with displeasure, but halted when Athos signaled him to stop. Athos stared down at the man coldly, though not unkindly. "I know this has come as a…shock. But I give you my word, as a musketeer, that what I have told you is true. Now go. Hurry to the estate."

"I don't know how to thank you," Jacob exclaimed, as he stared at the mounted musketeer, while letting go of the rein in his hand.

"You have nothing to thank me for, I am merely the messenger. It is your own skills that have earned you this position." Before the conversation could drag on any longer, Athos neatly wheeled Roger around and started to ride away.

"Can I at least know the name of my messenger?"

Athos had no intention of telling Jacob his name in case, somehow, he connected it back to the Comte who had fired him. So, he ignored the question and rode out of the stable yard, heading back towards the garrison. When he came across a street torch already lit for the night, he stopped Roger and withdrew a second letter from the inside of his jacket. He held it for a moment, looking at the carefully crafted letters in the firelight that spelled out 'Comte de la Fére'.

Jourdain's cousin had insisted the boon to the Comte de la Fére also be recoded and delivered and, like the letter for Jacob, Athos had agreed to deliver it to the Comte de la Fére. Only no one had realized the task had been complete the moment he was handed the letter. He now took that same letter and fed it to the torch's flames, letting go only when there was just a small corner of paper left unburnt.

Pressing his heels to Roger's side once more, he continued onward to the garrison. As he crossed under the stone archway, the guard on the right looked up at him. Giving the watchman a short head dip, Athos spurred Roger forward across the deserted courtyard. As it was dinner time, the absence of people made sense. Dismounting in front of the stable, he waited a second or two before a stable boy poked his head out of the barn and upon seeing Roger hurried forward to take him away.

"Brush him well, feed him a double portion of grain, clean water in his bucket and fresh hay in his stall. He has earned it."

A bob of the boy's head showed he understood as he took the reins and led the black stallion away. The horse gave a backwards glance over his shoulder and Athos admonished, "Behave," to which the boy bobbed his head again and the stallion rolled his eyes.

Turning his attention to his Captain's balcony, Athos let out a small sigh before walking across the dirt expanse to the stairs. When he reached the first landing, he took a moment to draw a deep breath and marshal his reserve strength to climb the last set of stairs. He was tired, he hurt from head to toe, and when he reached the balcony, he was tempted to drop onto the floor, curl up in a ball, go to sleep and let fate take its course. But his damned sense of duty had him shuffle across the covered porch to the Captain's door, where he raised his hand and knocked.


	36. Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

Earlier in the day, Aramis and Porthos had visited Captain Treville upon their return to the garrison. They too had handed their mounts off to the stable lads with the same instructions to take good care of the exhausted animals. The courtyard had been rather crowded and they had been greeted by one or two of the other musketeers as they made their way across the dirt towards the Captain's lair.

At that moment, Treville happened to be stretching his muscles on the porch. Bending over his desk dealing with the never-ending mountain of paperwork had put a crick in his back. One such piece of paperwork that not only made his back hurt, but also his head was a detailed report from Roudon listing his grievances against Athos. While he realized it was only one side of the story, there were some grim accusations within the document. Treville sighed and shook his head. He hadn't fully realized how deep the division in his regiment had become, nor how detrimental. His decision to bring non-nobles into the musketeers hadn't been overly popular at first, but he thought the men had gotten past titles and ranks to see the worth of a person, as a person. Sadly, he realized he was wrong and it might just be Athos who suffered for his blindness. While Porthos had appeared in the grievance, and a few comments on Aramis, it had been very clear that Roudon's primary target was Athos.

As had also been his habit, he glanced over at the gate, then swept the courtyard with his tired blue eyes looking for his men. A small shudder ran through his frame as recalled the lone injured musketeer riding through the garrison gate not a fortnight ago. And if the musketeer's condition was horrible, the message he carried was even worse. All dead. From the storm. Musketeers and prisoners alike, though one other person had to have survived for the musketeer reported that the body count did not match what it should have been. Some of the bodies were burnt so badly from the fire that the musketeer had not been able to identify them, especially amongst the prisoners, who were unfamiliar to him. But he knew one person was unaccounted for, and he suspected it was a prisoner because he felt he had been able to identify, mostly, his own dead brethren.

The lone survivor had been taken to the infirmary and the doctor summoned, but in the end, the badly burned musketeer succumbed to his injuries. He had been able, before his death, to tell the Captain what he knew of the rescue of Athos, so the Captain knew it had been a success, that the Spanish captain had been captured, and that the Inseparables were going to complete the original mission to deliver the horses to the King, albeit a bit late.

Ever since that day, Captain Treville had been keeping a weather eye on the gate, waiting for the return of his three musketeers. The regiment had lost enough men to this mission and he prayed every night to lose no more. So, he looked over the rail and had a spilt second of relief before he realized he only saw two approaching musketeers. A frown deepened the creases in his weather-worn face.

"Where is Athos?" he barked as they arrived on his level. He hadn't meant it to sound so sharp, but worry gripped his soul when he saw only the two of them.

"And welcome home to you too, Captain. It was a very trying trip in case you were at all curious," Aramis said with a hint of sarcasm in his reply, even if a smile was plastered on his face. "And Athos is running an errand and will be along shortly. However, we did send an advanced gift of Spanish prisoners."

Silently, Treville studied the two men standing in front of him noting they looked worn-out from their journey, in need of food, water, and, he wrinkled his nose, a good scrubbing. Then what Aramis said hit him. He realized they didn't know what had happened to the prisoners and the musketeer escorts, or about the accusations from Roudon. He debated how much to tell them, then decided it could all wait for a short while.

"My apologies. I spoke out of concern. I'm indeed happy you have arrived safely after your mission. I was becoming worried by your prolonged absence." The Captain held up his hand to forestall Aramis who was about to speak. "I expect a full report, but it can wait until you have cleaned up, eaten and gotten some sleep."

"It's no problem, Captain. We can provide our report now, if you wish," Aramis graciously offered as he took a step closer.

"What I wish," Treville replied as he took a step backwards, "is for you to go away. No offense, but even out here you stink. I'll not have that stench invading my office."

With a devilish grin, Aramis took off his hat and gave his superior a short bow. "We will remove our offensive selves from your proximity until such time as we are presentable enough for your delicate senses."

The expression on Treville's face said he failed to see the humor in Aramis' remarks. "You will report first thing after muster, be prepared to provide your account of this mission. And be sure that Athos is with you," he growled before turning and stomping back into his office.

Porthos, who had remained quiet, spoke now, saying, "He don't seem like he's in a good mood."

"No, certainly not," Aramis agreed as the two men made their way down the stairs. "And for some reason I have the distinct impression our missing third is at the heart of it. The Captain appeared quite dismayed that we showed up without Athos. And here I thought he loved us all equally."

Porthos snorted as they made their way over to their favorite table to pour themselves a drink.

"We cause too much…," Porthos grabbed a roll and took a big bite while he searched for a word. After he swallowed, he said the only one that fit. "Trouble. Even when we don't mean to."

"We have gotten into a scrape or two, haven't we?" Aramis drank from the glass Porthos had poured him as he contemplated the Captain's words. "And it seems like this time, Athos has tweaked the tiger's tail. Doing what, I can't say. But we will find out in good time. In the meantime, I think we should take the Captain's advice to heart. We are a tad, ripe shall we say."

"Do you think it odd, Treville's reaction to Athos not being with us. I mean I understand his concern at first, not knowing if something untoward had happened to him. But even though he now knows that Athos is alright, the Captain still seems, well I'm not sure quite what, on edge."

Porthos nodded. "Oi. Something's got his cage rattled. And when Athos shows up, we'll find out. Until then I wanna get clean, eat and sleep."

Their pilfered snack from the table took enough edge off their hunger that they headed to the bath house to bathe. It took a few water changes, elbow grease and some lavender scented soap to get the two fit for company once more. Their clothes were a matter for the laundress except for their leather coats, which, as always, had stood the test of time quite well.

After a quick time-check, they decided to head down to the mess hall to eat the evening meal before turning in. On the way, they detoured past the gate to inquire if Athos had returned yet. It was an easier method than trying to hunt the man down within the garrison walls, especially if their friend was in an antisocial mood and avoiding them. But the guards indicated they had not yet seen him and informed Aramis that Athos seemed to be a popular man tonight for his wasn't the first inquiry. Roudon, after seeing that Aramis and Porthos had returned, had inquired if Athos had been seen. Why, the guard wasn't sure because from what he knew, Roudon disliked Athos and wanted him banished from the regiment.

Aramis and Porthos thanked the guard then headed over to the dining facility which was quite crowded. Porthos swore as they crossed the threshold there was a moment of silence, which quickly faded back into the normal clank and clatter of a dinner service. However, a swift glance at Aramis told him his friend had noted it too.

They filled their plates and carried them over to two empty seats at a table near the wall. Settling in their chairs, they had that eerie sensation of being watched again. Serge, who was patrolling his territory passing out fresh crocks of butter, dropped one on their table.

"You're a man short aren't ya?" he noted as he made his delivery and moved on.

"Yeah," Paul said from the next table over. "Where's Athos?" The way the man said it didn't indicate a level of concern, but more like a level of good riddance.

"Most likely he's drunk somewhere," an unnamed voice drifted above the crowd causing a number of musketeers to laugh in agreement.

Exchanging a quiet glance, Aramis and Porthos ignored the chatter and began to eat their food. The comments about Athos continued around them growing in scope and exaggeration.

"He's always wearing that hat pulled low to hide his drunken eyes."

"Heard he sticks his head in the horse trough...fell in the horse trough."

"Was caught drunk on duty... By the Cardinal...King...Queen."

"Threw up on the Captain's boots...in the Palace...in the King's carriage."

"Heard he was a disgraced son of a noble...bastard of a maid...commoner pretender."

"He dislikes women...hates women...dallies with men."

"Treville only keeps him in the regiment because...blackmail...bastard brother...lover."

Finally, Porthos slammed his hand on the table, jumped to his feet and bellowed. "Enough!"

"Says another commoner who shouldn't be in the regiment," an anonymous voice yelled out.

Before Porthos could growl out his reply, Aramis put a restraining hand on his arm, urging him to sit and calm down. However, as he was getting ready to stand and make a rebuttal, there came a clanging of wood against metal and another voice was raised.

Serge stood in the doorway between the common room and the kitchen beating one of his giant wooden spoons against a metal pot. A hush settled over the room as the veteran soldier, now cook, continued to beat his self-made drum.

"I don't never want to hear such disrespect for our Captain or regiment in my kitchen or you'll not only answer to the Captain, but also to me," Serge declared as he stood there, pot tucked under his arm, looking formidable. "We're all here to serve a common mission, protection of our King and Queen. And to do this Captain Treville has chosen the best men in all of France to serve. Period."

Aramis settled back in his seat to watch as Serge stood proud and tall daring anyone to defy him. When the old cook was satisfied his point had been made, he turned and went back into his kitchen. Slowly the sounds of food being eaten, the clink of dishes, and soft voices filled the room once more.

"It ain't right. Them talking about him like that," Porthos said angrily, stabbing at a piece of meat as if it were a tiger ready to pounce on him.

As Aramis glanced around the room, he noticed something that hadn't dawned on him before in regards to the seating arrangements. There appeared to be two camps forming in the regiment. Roudon and his ilk, the old guard, certified sons of the nobility, made up one group. Then there was the smaller group of soldiers whose origins were not so grand. While there were a few nobles on the 'common' side, mainly third or even fourth sons, there were no commoners on the noble side.

He was aware there was some dissention in the regiment over Treville's choices, especially to open the regiment to non-nobility. But when had it gotten this bad that the unit was becoming physically divided? And the comments about Athos, which had started from cronies of Roudon, had grown very slanderous.

Aramis set about quietly eating his dinner, his ears tuned to the conversations in the room. He could only hear snatches of discussions, but it appeared they were still talking about Athos and wondering what Treville was going to do about it. The marksman couldn't figure out what 'it' was though he thought, based on a few phrases, it had to do with Roudon and the recent trip.

Porthos was eating his food with ferocious intensity, all while muttering under his breath.

"Did you hear them talking?" Aramis asked Porthos between thoughtful mouthfuls.

"Don't care. They're idiots." Porthos declared, looking up for a moment to glare at the other side of the room before dropping his gaze to his food once more.

"Of course, they're idiots. Their nobleness is strangling their common sense. However, they seem to be very convinced that Captain Treville is going to do something about 'it' in regards to Athos."

"It? What's it?"

Aramis sat quietly for a few moments before he said, "Insubordination. I fear that is the 'it.'"

That got Porthos' full attend as he put down his spoon and looked up at Aramis. "For what he did to Roudon?"

Aramis gave him a short nod. "Most likely."

"Roudon deserved it."

"Whether he did or not is not the crux of the issue. The fact that Athos hit a superior officer is an indiscretion that is punishable. Captain Treville would be within his rights to do anything from a verbal reprimand, to kicking him out of the regiment, to having him dragged off to prison. Roudon and his cronies are going to push Treville for the maximum punishment.

"Porthos!" Aramis hissed at the streetfighter who was glaring at the far tables again. "Don't make things worse. They'd happily see you drummed out of the musketeers too."

"Let them try!"

"Don't give them cause. Let's concentrate on getting Athos out of hot water and not you into it," Aramis half-warned, half-cajoled.

With a grunt, Porthos dropped his eyes and focused back on Aramis. "This is getting out of control."

"Yes, it is. But we need to have faith in Captain Treville. He has always treated everyone fairly and honestly in the regiment. Let's trust him to continue to do so."


	37. Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

"Enter," the Captain called out in response to the knock on his door.

Keeping a neutral expression on his face, Treville studied the disheveled man who was standing before him. Athos, as seemed to be his norm, was standing not quite at attention, staring straight ahead at an imaginary spot on the wall.

"Your assignment, in the end, was successful?" the Captain asked, moving around to stand in front of his desk.

That did illicit a small wince from the usually stoic musketeer. "I suppose it depends on your definition of success. The Spanish are finished. The King got his horses. But the price, in human lives, was too great."

"So, you know? How? Did you come across them? I didn't get the impression that Aramis or Porthos knew," Treville questioned, his tone indicating his great puzzlement.

Now, it was Athos' turn to look confused. "Them?"

As if they were in a canyon, their words echoed off each other.

"The musketeers."

"Musketeers?"

"And the prisoners."

"Prisoners?"

"From the rescue."

"Rescue?"

By now the Captain realized that Athos didn't know what had happened and he really had no choice but to tell him. He knew they were too far down this path to turn back now. Rubbing a weary hand over his eyes, he relayed the tale as best he knew it. "Only Breten made it back to the garrison. And he survived less than a day, long enough to pass on what had happened to his fallen comrades. They were caught in a storm. Lightning struck a tree. It caught on fire and fell, setting the surrounding trees alight." Treville drew a deep breath then finished the story. "But Mother Nature wasn't done and a whirlwind came through on the tail of the first storm. Other than Breten, no one survived. They all died."

Athos' knees began to buckle and he lurched forward to grab the edge of the Captain's desk with both hands to keep from tumbling to the ground. "All died," he echoed, head hung low between his shoulders.

Treville walked over and placed a hand on Athos' trembling shoulder. "Easy, son."

The words, which Treville thought would be of comfort, set off an unexpected, swift chain-reaction in the swordsman. Athos pushed off the desk violently, stalked across the Captain's office and, placing his back to Treville, stood by the one window overlooking the courtyard below. The word 'son' had rattled him, the tone, the sympathy, the implied caring; his own father had never uttered those words in such a manner.

"But you only think you have heard the end of the story. I am here to tell you there is..." Athos swallowed hard, "...more." Taking a deep breath, he paused for a moment as he stared out the window. Shaking his head, he exhaled. "Another escaped that storm. The Spanish Captain, Anton. How, I have no idea. But he did and he made his way back to Comte Vergy's farm. And then..." a shudder ripped through Athos' exhausted frame and he bowed forward a bit. "And then the Comte took the bullet meant for me. The Spanish Captain came back to kill me and instead Jourdain paid my price."

Captain Treville silently walked over to the cabinet where he kept his liquor. He found two mugs and poured a good measure of brandy into each. Grabbing the mugs, he walked over and handed one to Athos who was still by the window. Distractedly, Athos took the mug that was practically forced into his hand.

"To the fallen," Treville offered by a way of a salute to the dead. After they each took a sip he added, "Damn shame." With that, the Captain downed the rest of his drink.

After moving to place his empty cup on his desk, Treville addressed the worn-down musketeer, who still hadn't turned from the window. "You knew Comte Vergy." He said it as a statement of fact, being the only man in the garrison who knew Athos' real past.

"I did. He was a...friend," Athos answered, his tone deep with sadness. "One of the few I had growing up. And," he added with a bitter laugh, "my father approved of him."

"Were you able to keep the others from knowing," Treville asked with curiosity.

"Jourdain was discreet. Though, in his will, he left the Comte de la Fère rights to any horse on the estate and then asked me to deliver the message to him." In one gulp, Athos downed the rest of the brandy before turning, walking over and placing the empty cup in the cabinet. He looked directly at his Captain. "He died because of me."

"He died because the Spanish were illegally in France trying to steal horses," Treville replied firmly. "You were doing your job." He could tell by the look on Athos' face he wasn't buying into it. What the swordsman didn't know was he had even bigger worries. But like Aramis and Porthos earlier, the Captain thought that news could wait for tomorrow, after Athos had had a chance to clean up, eat and rest.

Athos was growing restless and wanted to leave, but knew he couldn't just walk out until he was dismissed. Mentally and physically he was a wreck and he simply needed to get away from everyone. And, a little voice added in his mind, get some wine and drink until he passed out.

Treville sensed the growing restlessness in his musketeer and knew it was only Athos' sense of duty, which he had in abundance, that was keeping him in the office. "Get cleaned up, eat and sleep. We will talk more in the morning after muster."

Treville could practically see the relief in Athos' body when he was dismissed. The musketeer hurried towards the door. As he opened it, Athos heard Treville add a caveat to the dismissal.

"And I expect you to be at muster tomorrow sober, Athos." Treville swore he saw Athos' flinch when his words hit home.

Athos, for all he wanted to slam the Captain's door with frustration, didn't, closing it gently before stumbling his way to the rail over-looking the courtyard below. Bracing both arms against the horizontal wooden rail, he dropped his head low and cursed. Sober. The word echoed through his head. Sober...sober...sober. He was very afraid it was a command he wasn't going to be able to obey tonight.

With a grunt, he pushed off the rail and made his way down the stairs. Pausing, he debated his next move...eat, sleep or cleanse. It only took a slight breeze to stir and drift across his filthy body and clothes to know which had to be done first. As he wasn't in the mood for company, he surreptitiously crossed the yard to the barracks and breathed a sigh of relief when he made it unobserved.

Once inside his room he was tempted simply to flop down on his bed and give in to his exhaustion, but his common, and olfactory, sense won out. Grudgingly, he took off his weapons belt and draped it over the table. His clothes were stripped off and, other than his doublet, which he draped over a chair, went in an untidy heap on the floor. Luckily, he had some clean towels tucked away in an oaken chest which he retrieved, then wrapped one around his waist and draped the second over his shoulders. He was still uncomfortable in public showing the scars he'd garnered on his first adventure with Porthos.

When he opened the door, he peered around to see if the area was still empty and it was, except for a hired hand named George, who helped out about the garrison. It was a fortuitous moment for one of George's tasks was to warm water and fill the tubs for the musketeers. He motioned George over, made his request and the man smiled as he cheerfully lumbered away. George was a good soul, always willing to tackle any task assigned. While not the sharpest tool in the shed, Athos found George's unassuming presence more tolerable than a large portion of the regiment.

Knowing it would take George a while to get things ready, Athos slipped back into his room for a few minutes, desperately hoping to avoid Porthos and, especially, Aramis. He wasn't in the mood to deal with the marksman's exuberance and medical prodding.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Athos dropped his head into his hands. The dark cloud of despair that had been hovering enveloped him. Jourdain's death hit him like a rock taking his breath away. Images of their times together flashed before him, interspaced with scenes of his death. This whole trip had been nothing but death and destruction. Then it hit him. What he had told himself he'd avoid.

Almost as if it wasn't part of his body, his hand reached out, groping and shaking the wine bottles on the little stand by his bed, searching for one that had liquid in it. Finally, after three tries, his fourth yielded results and he guzzled down every drop before letting the bottle fall onto the bed. Rising from the bed, he made his way across the room to a closed cabinet. Reaching out his hand, he almost jerked it open, then stopped and leaned his forehead against the wooden surface instead. Promise, he scolded himself. You made a promise.

Pushing away from the cabinet with resolve, he headed for the door. George probably was done by now and if not, it would still be safer to wait in the wash room. Still preoccupied with the bottle of wine that seemed to be calling his name, Athos flung open the door, stepped outside and nearly collided with Serge, the cook. It was a toss-up who was more startled, though Serge was the first to speak.

"And the third has returned. I saw your two compatriots earlier scarf up dinner like they hadn't eaten in a month of Sundays." Serge ran a critical eye over Athos exposed body. "You look like you ain't seen the feed bag in a while neither."

Athos stood there staring at Serge, the last person he'd expected to run into and also the garrison's biggest gossip. Adjusting the towel on his back to make sure he was covered, he explained, "As a soldier, you know what it is like in the field when it comes to food."

"Aye, I do at that. That's why I make sure I feed you boys well in my garrison. Build up your reserve," the old soldier said with pride. "I may be old but doesn't mean I can't be useful."

"I was on my way to the wash room. I have the grime of ancient civilizations on my person."

Serge gave him a quizzical look.

"I'm dirty," Athos amended drily.

"Understand. The field is a messy place. That's why I keep my kitchen spotless."

Athos wasn't sure he got the connection, but he ignored it and went on with his plea. "I was hoping to take a nice, quiet, bath. Alone," he emphasized in case Serge didn't get it.

But the crafty old cook did. "So, you'll be wanting me to keep your whereabouts quiet, even from your two sidekicks."

"Especially from them. We have been on the road together forever. You know how it is. One needs a break."

Serge gave the young swordsman a toothy grin. He liked this new recruit, even if he was very reserved. But Serge's sixth sense, which had served him well all his years, said Athos was one of the good ones, destined to be even more. Too bad the young man couldn't see his own self-worth. "Nobody's gonna get from me that you're back. Go. Enjoy your soak in peace. I'll even bring ya a little something to eat."

"Please. Don't trouble yourself. I'm fine," Athos replied to Serge's offer.

"No trouble. It's my job. Besides, underneath those cuts, which you might want your friend to look at, I can see your ribs."

Athos couldn't stop the faint blush from creeping over his skin and Serge let out a gruff laugh. "You are an odd one Athos. Boldest man I ever saw with sword. Stone-faced and yet you blush like a maiden bride on her wedding night." Kindly, he patted Athos' arm. "I'm just an old soldier and I've seen it all. If you don't be wanting the rest of the garrison gawking at you, I'd tighten them towels and use the back corridor."

Somehow, while they had been talking, the towels indeed had slipped a bit more than Athos found comfortable. With a nod of thanks and a deepening blush, Athos hurried away.

Serge chuckled to himself as he hurried off to his kitchen. Young men. A lot of bluster but still blushing boys at heart.


	38. Chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

It really wasn't his fault he tried to rationalize as he pulled his hat even lower over his forehead. He'd been soaking in the tub when Serge showed up with a tray of food and a bottle of wine. Athos had tried to resist, had tried to keep his promise to Captain Treville. The bottle had been sitting there, next to the tub as he soaked, and he ignored it, even though as he languished in the warm water, he'd grown thirsty. A clever man had designed these copper tubs with a firebox below them, where, if stacked correctly, the firewood would smolder and keep the water hot, but not boiling, for hours. And George, who had arranged the tub for Athos, was an expert.

Athos had eaten the food as he lay in the hot bath, the water soothing his physical aches but doing nothing for his mental well-being, except making him sleepy. At one point he must have drifted off in the warm cocoon of water. His body relaxed, but his mind went into full gear, throwing nightmares at him which riddled him with guilt, remorse and shame. He started awake with a jolt that sloshed water over the edge of the tub onto the embers below and suddenly he was in a steam-filled room. The air grew hot and his throat tightened; he felt like drawing breath was a herculean task and he gasped like a fish out of water.

Finally, the water in the tub stopped sloshing over the edge, the steam abated and Athos was able to breath in a more normal fashion, though he was still panting a bit. The wine bottle, which he had resisted, came into view as it sat on the table near the tub where Serge had left it. His willpower fled. Grabbing the bottle, he tore away the cork with his teeth, spit it aside and guzzled down the wine.

One bottle of wine would have hardly been enough to put more than a little buzz on the experienced drinker. But if you added on top of the wine, his injuries, the heat of the room and exhaustion, it was enough to knock Athos off balance. He stumbled from the tub and landed on the floor with a thump. The small part of his brain which still had the ability to process rational thoughts prodded him to rise; passing out naked in the washroom was probably not a good move.

With a groan, he dropped the empty bottle in the tub and struggled to his feet on the water-soaked floor, using the edge of the copper tub for leverage. Unsteadily, he wobbled across the slick stones to where he'd left the towels. After a few unsuccessful attempts he managed to get one towel secured around his waist. The thought of curling up in a ball on the floor and passing out crossed his muddled mind once more, but he forced himself to keep moving.

Shuffling his way to the door, he yanked it open and stepped into the night air. Though it was by no means cold, still it felt chilly on his overheated body. Fumbling his way along, he headed for his room, instinctively staying to the shadows. Luck was on his side and he made it all the way without being seen by a single person, though had he any idea of the time it wouldn't have seemed like such a surprise.

In the sanctity of his room, behind a closed, locked door, he sank onto his bed. Again, his intentions were well-meaning, but as he lay on his back on the rumpled blankets, his hand draped over the edge of the bed, fingers bumping into the smooth glass of a bottle. As if under a power of their own, his fingers closed around the neck of the green bottle as his arm raised it to eye level. Nearly full, his brain registered as it came into eye-view and before he knew it the nectar inside was sliding down his parched throat. And so, his promise to Captain Treville had been broken and he stood in the morning sun, in the courtyard, hat drawn low over his aching head.

Porthos and Aramis, standing to either side of the hungover musketeer, were suffering through guilt pangs of their own. They had had every intention of keeping an eye out for Athos' return, and after their dinner, they had gone to Aramis' room to wait and watch. But fatigue from their recent journey overwhelmed them and they drifted off into a deep sleep that didn't release them from its grip until the next morning when a stray shaft of sunlight crept into the room and tickled them. When they finally roused enough to have a coherent thought, they realized what had happened and that they were going to be late for muster if they didn't hurry.

They had been relieved when they slid into the courtyard, immediately spotting their third, who was wincing at the normal sounds of the day under his low drawn hat. But there had been no time for greetings, let alone the tons of questions on their lips, for Captain Treville came stomping down his stairs looking distinctly unhappy. His piercing blue eyes scanned the regiment, lingering for a second on Athos before moving onward. Then, with his usual efficiency, he handed out the assignments for the day. Athos, Porthos, Aramis, Roudon, Francis and Pierre were instructed to go to his office and wait for him. Five of them exchanged uneasy glances, while Athos simply yanked his hat further over his forehead and then walked across the dirt toward the staircase.

The musketeers assembled in the Captain's office. When Treville joined them he instantly noted they were separated into two camps; Roudon, Francis and Pierre to one side and Athos, Aramis and Porthos on the other. Interestingly, Athos, while part of the second grouping also somehow gave the appearance of being not quite part of them. Treville shut the door behind him then moved across the room toward his desk. Standing beside the large, somewhat messy desk, he ran a critical eye over the assembled men, wishing he was anywhere but here. What he was about to do, had to do, was necessary. Discipline was key to operating a military unit. But his gut told him there was more, much more, to this situation than appeared on the surface. It also told him this was the apex of a deeper more fundamental issue that had been brewing since the formation of the musketeers. Ironic, he supposed, that it was being brought to light by the one person who should have been on the opposing side.

"Athos," he called out as he moved from the side of the oaken desk to stand in front of aforementioned man. "Have you been drinking?"

The man stood silently in front of him, his watery, blood-shot eyes fixed on some imaginary spot on the far wall. A verbal answer to the question really wasn't necessary.

"There were certain, conditions, set upon you when you joined this regiment," Treville reminded Athos in a low voice that contained elements of seriousness and sorrow.

Porthos and Aramis were close enough to hear the exchange and they glanced at each other with puzzlement. They hadn't been aware of any conditions on Athos' acceptance into the musketeers. Though, given the private nature of the man, it really shouldn't have surprised them at all that he had never mentioned it.

"And I have not forsaken what I promised," Athos replied, with voice somewhat rusty from lack of use. "Am I on duty?"

Treville eyes narrowed as he slowly answered, "No. Not yet I suppose, as I have not given you an assignment. Though technically," he added, "to be a musketeer means you are always ready to defend King and Country."

Athos gave a slight head tilt to acknowledge the point. "And technically," Athos replied emphasizing the word, "I am not incapacitated and am ready for duty."

"You're drunk!"

"Hungover, yes. Drunk to the point where I cannot carry out my duties, no."

"For a man of few words, you certainly know how to twist the ones you choose to speak," Treville groused softly under his breath.

Roudon, who was intently watching from the other side of the office could remain silent no longer. "This is why he and his kind should be drummed out of the unit."

His Lieutenant's words made Treville remember what was at stake here today was much larger than a possibly broken promise. What was at stake here today could not only fracture the regiment, but also ruin a man.

Captain Treville took a few steps back towards the middle of the room so he could address everyone as a group.

"Athos. Lieutenant Roudon has accused you of insubordination, failure to follow orders and striking a superior officer. These are serious accusations if they are true."

"Of course, they're true," Roudon interjected. "Francis and Pierre will testify and even those two," he gestured towards Porthos and Aramis, "should they be inclined not to imperil their immortal souls, know it to be the truth."

Captain Treville ignored Roudon's outburst, focusing his attention back on Athos. "Is there truth in these accusations?"

Athos shifted his solemn green eyes from the spot on the wall to his Captain's face. "Is it insubordination not to follow orders that are not well thought-out and bordering on the edge of stupidity?"

Roudon took a few steps towards Athos, his face flushed with anger. "This is an outrage. Who are you, some common soldier, to question my orders? There were reasons for my orders, which because of your limited intelligence you may not be able to comprehend. However, you are still expected to follow them to the letter."

"While you may not have agreed with Lieutenant's Roudon's orders, a soldier is expected to obey his commander," Treville declared. While he could appreciate Athos' sentiments, an Army was run on rank and structure.

"And an officer has a duty to ensure his orders are as sound as the situation allows, considering the welfare of the mission as well as the welfare of his men," Athos retorted mildly, though his eyes held a gleam of anger.

"This is getting us nowhere. Athos struck me, more than once. He was derelict with his duties. He disobeyed my orders, repeatedly, and he was disrespectful of my position as his superior. I want him court-martialed and sent to prison!" Roudon finished with a flourish.

"Prison!" Aramis broke in angrily. "That's ridiculous!"

Before Treville could intervene, Roudon turned on Aramis and Porthos. "And these two were scarcely better. Though given their circumstances I suppose one might be charitable. Still, one has to think of the regiment."

"How come I feel like we've just been insulted?" Porthos muttered under his breath causing Aramis to smile and Treville to glance his way sharply.

"Given your _circumstances,_ I'm surprised you figured that out," Aramis dolefully whispered back sarcastically.

Before things got any further out of hand, Captain Treville resumed control. "There is only one person in this room who will be making any decisions on these matters and that is me."

Roudon appeared to want to contradict that statement, but Treville didn't let him.

"I have heard your accusations as well as Francis' and Pierre's statements. I will now talk to Aramis, Porthos and Athos before I render any sort of decision." Treville let his gaze touch each one of them to make sure his point was taken.

Roudon, scowling, was clearly unhappy, as were his two henchmen. Aramis and Porthos also appeared unsettled. Yet Athos, who stood to lose the most, wore that inscrutable expression that drove his friends and enemies alike to distraction.

"Aramis stays. The rest of you, out. Porthos. Athos. Stay in the courtyard until I call for you." Treville dismissed them with a curt nod before turning his back on them to walk behind his desk.

Silently, Porthos clapped Aramis on the shoulder before following Athos out the door. Francis and Pierre went next, but Roudon maintained his place for a moment.

"Captain Treville. I respect this regiment, and the King has no more loyal subject than I. I also hold you in high regard and it is because of this that I am troubled so much by the decisions you have been making in regards to staffing this elite group. And this is why you have to reconsider some of your actions and cull the unit of those that will bring it down."

Treville turned around to look at Roudon with a neutral expression on his face.

"Don't take this as a sign of disrespect, but if you don't severely punish Athos and make other changes, I am afraid it will be my duty, along with those that believe as I do, to petition the King." With that, Roudon spun on his heels and swiftly left the room.

Treville glanced over at Aramis to see his reaction to Roudon's statement and he was met with a lazy smile. "It's certainly difficult to see any _disrespect _in what Roudon said, isn't it, Captain."

Treville ignored the sarcastic comment and simply said, "Tell me what happened on a simple mission to pick up some horses."


	39. Chapter 39

CHAPTER 39

"Roudon happened, Captain. From the very beginning, our Lieutenant treated the three of us like something he stepped in in the stable yard."

"And you did nothing to provoke that behavior?" Treville asked as he led them over to two chairs and gestured for Aramis to sit.

Aramis gracefully settled his lanky frame in the chair. "Honestly, at first nothing. Yes, none of us were happy you put Lieutenant Roudon in charge, but we agreed to make the best of the situation."

Treville eyed Aramis as if he doubted his statement, wondering if he could get the man to speak what he believed were his true sentiments. He provoked marksman a bit. "I have already spoken with both Francis and Pierre and neither expressed any concerns about Roudon's leadership."

A small scowl turned down the corner of Aramis' lips. "No, I wouldn't imagine they would voice any complaints because they are cut from the same cloth as Roudon. Whereas I, and especially Porthos, are certainly not. Athos, man of mystery, who knows."

Treville sat quietly, letting a skeptical frown grace his features. The silence grew and the Captain was about to speak when Aramis finally said.

"If one is not part of the nobility then, in Roudon's eyes, one might as well be a beggar, or a thief. Certainly not a musketeer. We offend his sensibility. If he and his cronies had their way, we'd be used for nothing other than cannon fodder, human shields to protect their precious noble hides," he burst out. "Half of them don't know what the pointy end of the sword is for, can't hit the broadside of a barn with pistol or musket, and in hand to hand combat I swear they'd wet their pants. Yet we are the ones not fit to guard their Majesties."

"Strong words," Treville said mildly, as he leaned back in his chair.

"Words that speak the truth and you know it!" Aramis accused his superior.

"Yet, the behavior of you three, the gambling, the drinking and the womanizing, it plays right into Roudon's perception of the actions of the common man," Treville frankly pointed out.

Aramis was quiet for a few seconds before a radiant grin spilt his face. "Well, I can't deny we do have a certain charisma."

"That's not what others call it."

Aramis shrugged indifferently. "You can't please everyone. But when it comes to who is the most qualified to guard the King of France, hands down it is us over them any day. Athos is the best swordsman I have ever known; Porthos is the best fighter and, not to brag, no one equals me with a firearm. That's who you want defending King and Country, not some bunch of nobles who have nothing but blue blood to recommend them."

Treville's voice took on a sharp edge. "What you are saying is I didn't pick qualified soldiers to guard my King."

"I may have exaggerated about their skill level; though," Aramis added with a touch of hubris, "none of them are as good as us. Captain, I have the utmost respect for you and I know you had reasons for choosing every single musketeer in the regiment."

Now it was Treville's turn to concede a little. "Mostly, though I won't deny that a few of the sons of the nobility were, shall we say, gifted to me by the King."

"Was Roudon one of them?" Aramis quickly shot back.

"That is not germane to this conversation. What I need to know is what happened on the mission. Why did Roudon, who up to this point was keeping his opinions mostly to himself, decide now was the time to go public? Does he have a reason?"

Aramis sighed deeply as he rubbed a hand over his face. "A great deal of what Roudon says has a ring of truth."

"Ring of truth?" Treville prodded.

"Athos' behavior could be viewed as inappropriate. It is true he did hit Roudon..."

"More than once?"

"Depends on how you count. It only happened once, but Athos did hit him multiple times during that event."

"Why did Athos hit Roudon?" Treville asked, trying to get them back on track.

"Because Roudon was condescending to Porthos. Treating him as if he were a no better than a street bum, not a musketeer. In speech and in actions, he treated Porthos like a slave."

"I'm surprised that Porthos wasn't the one that punched Roudon. I'm not as blind as you may think. I know Roudon has been less than honorable in his actions towards Porthos," the Captain admitted.

"If you were aware then why did you put him in charge of the mission?" Aramis spat out, his cheeks flushing red. "You created the situation."

"Watch your tone, Aramis!"

The marksman knew he had gotten too heated and backed down. "Apologies, Captain. But I still have to ask, why?"

Both Treville and Aramis knew he didn't have to answer, but Treville's policy was to be as honest as he could with his men. That is what made him a good commander, because people trusted and respected him.

"When I was asked to set up this unit by the King, I wanted to build the best regiment in all of France. Bring in top talent. It wasn't until later that I learned this regiment was also part of a deal between the King and his nobility. I was thinking supreme defenders of the realm, they were thinking dumping grounds for surplus sons of the nobility."

Treville stretched his hardened frame and shifted to find a more comfortable position in his chair.

"Don't get me wrong. The idea of the musketeers was a necessary and important concept and I got some very good men, educated, loyal, weapons trained. But," he sighed, "some of the nobility came with certain... expectations."

"And I'm guessing serving alongside common soldiers was not one of them."

Treville have Aramis a wiry grin. "Ex-soldiers to teach them to be better fighters, to take care of the weapons, to help run the garrison, even to cook their meals was fine..."

"But to serve alongside them or, God forbid, to lead them, not so fine," Aramis finished his voice a mixture of sarcasm and understanding. "And yet, you still brought men like Porthos and myself into the unit."

Firmly and with a touch or pride, Treville answered, "I did. I wanted the best regiment and I wanted the best soldiers, men like you and Porthos."

"How did you convince the King?" Aramis asked with curiosity.

"I didn't so much ask as I simply did. I was given the power to set up the musketeers and, well, I did. His majesty is much too preoccupied with more important tasks to be involved in everything."

"But doesn't the King have to personally offer a commission to each musketeer? Not to be blunt but wouldn't someone like Porthos stick out among the faithful?"

"Did you know that Porthos saved the King's life the first time he met him? We were in the gardens and heard the sounds of a horse. Somehow, an assailant had managed to get by the household guards. To this day I don't know how he did it, but before any of us could draw our pistols on the intruder, Porthos had yanked him off his horse, slammed him into the ground, disarmed and subdued him."

"Impressive."

"That's what the King thought too and he said he needed men like him in the musketeers to guard his Royal person. So, the next day when I brought Porthos' commission back to him to sign, he did."

"I see," Aramis said though he felt that there must be more to the story than Treville was revealing and he was right.

Things had been very hectic that day and the King never got a really good look at Porthos, his savior. The first time the King really did get a good look at Porthos, he had exclaimed that the man was black and could not be a musketeer. Treville had reminded the King he had signed the commission himself. The King had replied he had thought Porthos was dirty from saving his life, not that it was his permanent skin tone. Treville then asked him to recall how, without thinking of himself, Porthos had singlehandedly thrown himself at an armed and dangerous assailant to save his Majesty's life. That was the type of loyalty and commitment the King needed in his musketeers. For whatever reason, maybe because the Cardinal wasn't around to influence him, the King had let the commission stand.

But the only thing that Treville said to Aramis was, "After Porthos was commissioned, it made it a little easier to bring a few other soldiers onboard, such as yourself."

"And I am guessing the fact my skin tone is a bit lighter and maybe I look more the role helped too," Aramis supposed aloud.

Ignoring Aramis' comment, Treville went on. "The King moved on, but people like Roudon have been tougher to convince and quite honestly, you men haven't often helped the issue with your behavior."

"It seems wrong that we have to kowtow to Roudon," Aramis replied with distaste.

"I'm not asking you to, but have you thought how some of the things you do, as well as Porthos and Athos, make you appear to the other men?'

Aramis grew quiet as he thought for a few moments. "I suppose we can be rough around the edges at times. But most of those sons of the nobility don't know a thing about struggling to survive. The pangs of hunger, the coldness of a night with naught but a thin rag, the disease and death that wander the streets of the poor at night. In those conditions you work hard to survive. So, forgive us if we have a few vices that help us to get by."

"Well, here in the garrison you have plenty of food, blankets that are thick and warm and a fairly clean, disease free place to live. So, maybe you could tone down your vices," Treville suggested with a wry grin.

"But on missions I have often been hungry and cold…"

"Aramis, you signed up to be a musketeer…"

"You asked me."

"You could have said no."

"No?" Aramis said in fake horror, "To such a noble position, even if I'm not a noble. Heaven forbid."

While they had been talking, the noise from the outside grew louder. Finally, Treville rose from his chair and walked over to a window that overlooked the courtyard. "What is going on out there?" he asked aloud as he saw most of his musketeers congregated in the courtyard and not at their assigned duties. Turning swiftly, he headed for the door. As he passed by Aramis, he tossed over his shoulder, "Want to make a small wager that somehow your companions are at the heart of whatever is going on out there?"

Aramis, who followed him out the door to the porch sincerely answered, "No, not really."


	40. Chapter 40

CHAPTER 40

Athos and Porthos clumped down the stairs heading toward their favorite table in the yard. Athos dropped heavily onto the wooden bench, crossed his forearms on the table and promptly buried his face in them. Porthos sat down across from him, poured two cups of water and shoved one in Athos' direction.

As Francis and Pierre left the stairs, a large group of musketeers made their way over to them and they began to converse in hushed tones. When Roudon made his way down, a hush fell over the group. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped, his eyes roaming the courtyard until they found Athos. With determination, he strode across the dirt.

"Why don't you do the right thing and simply leave the regiment on your own? If you do that, I will overlook your insubordination," Roudon demanded, coming to a halt by the table. "For once, act like a gentleman."

"The fact he hasn't got up from the table and kicked your sorry ass says he's a gentleman to me," Porthos growled, as he rose to his feet. "I suggest you leave, 'cause I'm not a gentleman and I'd be happy to hit you. Hard. And repeatedly."

The crowd of musketeers along with Francis and Pierre moved closer to the table, listening.

All eyes were resting on Athos, waiting to see what he would do. When he simply sat as he was, head buried in his arms, Roudon walked over and shook Athos' shoulder. "I demand you show respect and look at me when I am talking to you."

Without raising his head, Athos intoned, "I didn't ask you to converse with me."

Roudon reached out to shake Athos again, but Porthos was quicker, his hand shooting out to stop Roudon.

"Don't touch him," Porthos growled, his menacing tone causing the hairs on Roudon's neck to vibrate.

Dropping his hand, he sneered. "You talk as if we are all equal yet you have this slave-trade reject fight your battles?"

Even if Porthos had wanted to react, Athos was quicker, the blade of his well-honed main-gauche flashing in the sunlight as he drew it with his left-hand, stood and pressed it against the sneering Roudon's throat.

"I'd suggest you consider you next words very carefully." The icy cold words were delivered barely above a whisper, but with the intensity of a tornado.

Roudon was not a stupid man and he quickly turned the situation to his advantage. In a loud voice he said, "See. You prove my point. Savage. You attack me like a common criminal with a blade. The only thing missing is a dark alley." Raising his voice another notch to ensure the whole crowd could hear, he added, "Go ahead. Do what you will, this time you won't be able to deny your actions. There are too many witnesses."

"Athos, it isn't worth it. He isn't worth it. Sheath your blade," Porthos half-requested, half-demanded, not sure which would work.

The world seemed to stand still for a few tense moments, the knife Athos was holding against Roudon's throat remained unwavering. Then, as swiftly as it appeared, the dagger disappeared back onto Athos' weapons belt.

"I advise you to be more circumspect in your future speech and treat Porthos with the respect and dignity he has not only earned as part of this regiment, but deserves as a man." With that, Athos dropped back down onto the bench, picked up the mug Porthos had poured him earlier and nonchalantly took a drink.

Turning towards the crowd of musketeers that had gathered, Roudon continued to spout his poison. "The musketeers were intended to be an elite group of warriors to protect our King and our Country." Someone from the back of the crowd gave a small cheer.

"France's best. God-loving. God-fearing. Catholic men." A slightly louder cheer arose from the crowd.

"Trustworthy men. Honest men. Men of integrity. Sons of the nobility!" An enthusiastic round of cheers rang through the courtyard once more at Roudon's rousing rhetoric.

Porthos shifted uneasily as he stood next to the table. "I don't like where this is going," he said softly to Athos, whose expression remained inscrutable as he took in the display.

Unbeknownst to both musketeers, their Captain and Aramis were quietly standing in the corner of the porch, observing. A shiver ran up Aramis' spine as he listened to the inflammatory words.

"We fight with honor and we die with honor. We understand sacrifice and we stand ready to serve. We are our King's sword and shield!"

The loudest cheer yet burst forth from the crowd, causing Captain Treville to frown. He gave the marksman a quick glance before focusing on the scene below. Things were getting out of hand.

Unaware he was being observed from the porch, Roudon continued. "Our leader, Captain Treville is noblesse militaire, his title comes not through right of blood, but has been honorably earned through his family's years of service to the King. It is an honor and a privilege to serve with such a fine commander."

"First smart thing he's ever said," Porthos muttered under his breath.

"The Captain has done a tremendous job getting the Regiment in order, selecting some of the finest talent in the land. And he had many great men to choose from, mighty sons of the nobility, flocking here to be part of this historic regiment."

The members of the crowd clapped each other on the back in congratulations as if they had just won some prize. Roudon had to raise his hands to get them to settle again.

By now, almost everyone in the garrison had turned out to listen. The audience was divided into distinct groupings. The nobility were clustered around Roudon, listening to his speech. Then there were smaller clumps of workers, near the area they served, such as the stables. Finally, there were scatterings of men, who were musketeers, but not nobility. These groups stood quietly on the outskirts of the main group, listening with apprehension. Many of these musketeers had thought they had blended in with their brethren, even though their birth circumstances were different. However, they were getting an uneasy feeling they had not been as successful as they had believed.

Finally, Roudon thought, he had his audience. He had been promoting his cause, quietly, for a while. He hadn't wanted to be overly vocal, wanting to be promoted to Lieutenant. While he felt Captain Treville had a blind spot when it came to recruitment, Roudon hadn't wanted to prejudice his chances. But now that he had been promoted and had held the position for a time, he felt it safe to continue his campaign. Surely, if enough of them protested to the Captain, he would see the error of his ways. How could the musketeers be an elite group of guards for the King if there were mongrels in their ranks?

"But within our ranks are those that don't belong. Men who don't fit the vision of an illustrious group of guards to protect France's most precious assets, her King and Queen. These men have behaviors that are undesirable, certainly not what one wants in the King's guards who are on display for the world to see."

Porthos glanced down at Athos to see how he was taking the rhetoric and found the man studying the table top, eyes hooded. A feeling made him look over his shoulder and up at the Captain's porch and he wasn't surprised when he saw Aramis standing there. What did surprise him was to see Captain Treville there too. He wondered how their commander would react to Roudon's speech.

"It is time, as noble sons of France, we rise up and tell our Captain what we feel and demand he do something about it!" A cheer went through Roudon's supporters, while those who were not enamored of his words began to worry.

Treville had heard enough and decided it was time to make his presence known and take control before this got out of hand. Aramis, sensing his Captain was about to do something, turned, made his way silently down the stairs and circled the fringe of Roudon's adherents to stand next to Porthos and the seated Athos.

"I'm getting' the feeling that my skin color is an _undesirable _behavior," Porthos softly said to Aramis.

"The color of your skin isn't a _behavior," _Aramis politely countered, "but, alas in Roudon's and his supporters' eyes I fear it is _undesirable. _Just as my discreet dalliances with women are not appreciated for the services they provide."

"There ain't nothing discreet about you and your women," Porthos rightly pointed out. More than once a jilted female or an irate husband had turned up at the garrison and demanded Aramis' hide.

Further conversation was halted by Captain Treville's voice ringing out over the courtyard. "I don't recall during muster that anyone's assignment for the day was to stand in the courtyard." Walking across the porch, he travelled down to the first landing and stopped. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?"

Roudon broke away from his supporters to move to the bottom of the staircase. "Problem is a strong word, though perhaps it is the right one. But for now, I see it more as a concern that needs to be addressed."

Even though Treville had overheard most of what Roudon had said and knew exactly what the _concern _was, he wanted to force the man to make his accusations to his face. It would give him an idea how serious Roudon was about his beliefs.

"Are you sure this is a conversation you want to have in such a public place?" Roudon asked of his Captain. By now, Roudon's supporters had moved to cluster around him once more and a quick head count showed it was more than three quarters of the regiment.

"If it is a _concern_ that so many of my regiment have, then yes, I think a public discussion is the right course of action." Treville folded his arms across chest and waited.

"As we have already spoken of in your office, I demand that Athos be removed from the regiment for insubordination and striking a superior with malicious intent. These marks on my face and body were not given to me by the enemy, but by Athos, a man under my command who refused to follow orders. When I called him out, he viciously attacked me."

"That's hardly what happened," Aramis tried to protest, but he was drowned out by the crowd who were angrily murmuring. Eyes started scanning for Athos, who had been at the table, but had silently slipped away without anyone noticing.

"Where did he go?" Porthos wondered aloud. "He was just here."

"Out of sight, but listening, if he is smart," Aramis answered. "I have a feeling this isn't going to end well."

"You have already made these accusations in the privacy of my office. Is this gathering a way to force the issue into a larger venue?" Treville asked as he slowly descended the stairs. "Are you doubting my word that I will look into this matter?"

Even though the Captain had hit the nail squarely on the head, Roudon was smarter than to admit it so he took a different tactic. "It seems what I voiced in your office is a concern to more than just myself." He stretched his arms to emphasize the size of the gathered crowd. "It seems the majority of the regiment has _concerns_ too."

Treville stopped at the foot of the stairs and scanned the large crowd that had gathered. Roudon was right, at least three quarters of the regiment had turned out to support his Lieutenant's position. Treville knew there was some level of discontent among the men about his controversial decision to bring soldiers who were not nobility into the musketeers, but he had no idea the numbers were this large. Originally, maybe, the number of doubters had been lower, but those who were sitting on the fence now had someone to rally around, and like sheep, they did.

He had hoped if he didn't make a big issue out of it and let the groups work side by side, that in time the nobility would see the value of their other brethren and accept them. But he could see now he had been naive in thinking that centuries of tradition could be overcome by such a simple plan as proximity. It wasn't like he had brought in bad soldiers, each one of them had skills that were superior to most. But it wasn't their skills that counted with the nobility. It was their blood, which couldn't be changed. It was ironic that the man Roudon was going after and making the figurehead of his campaign, was a noble himself of the highest rank. Not that that was going to be a help, since he had sworn he would keep Athos' secret, and he, Treville, was a man of his word.

But to be fair to Roudon, the Inseparables, as Aramis, Athos and Porthos had come to be known, while excellent fighters, did come with some baggage. And that is what needed to be addressed today, behavior not birthright.

"Lieutenant Roudon," Treville started out. "As the commander of the mission, duly appointed by me, you have the right to expect your orders to be obeyed. Striking an officer and failure to follow orders is certainly a matter that requires investigation. As such, I am interviewing each and every man who has knowledge of what transpired. After I have all the facts, I will render a decision and pronounce punishment as warranted." Treville made these remarks to the entire gathering, making sure to catch the eyes of many so there would be no doubt he was addressing them all.

"Until my investigation is complete and I have rendered a decision," his eyes settled on Roudon, "I expect everyone to go about their business as usual. Keep your speculations and theories to yourself."

"But Captain, is it fair that one man makes a decision that effects the entire regiment?" Roudon dared to ask.

"It is when it is the regiment's Captain, duly appointed by the King of France, to lead the musketeers. Consider it an order. One I expect to be followed," Treville declared in a firm voice. "Otherwise, I might find the need for further investigations." The threat was not lost on anyone listening.

Roudon, trying to recoup a bit of his advantage, made a slight bow to acknowledge the Captain's words. "We are sure, after your investigation, the truth will be known and proper steps taken to remedy the situation. Perhaps our thoughts that this matter had to be brought to another were premature."

Treville's blue eyes narrowed, the implied threat perceived. "I would advise that any action on this matter, not sanctioned by me, could be perceived as insubordination in its own right and therefore equally punishable."

An uneasy hush fell over the crowd.

"Enough time has been wasted. You all have duties. Get to them."

Slowly, the crowd dispersed, each musketeer going about his business, though Treville knew this was far from over. He had had his say, but Roudon's words were still heavily influencing many of the nobility amongst the musketeers. He was their Captain and nobility himself, but his nobility was earned by generations of service, not by centuries of birthright. The Captain wasn't a stupid man and he knew amongst the nobility there was a pecking order and a man such as himself was not considered high on that pole. This was shaping up to be more than it appeared on the surface.

Now that the crowd was gone, he could see Porthos and Aramis standing by their favorite table. "Where's Athos?" he demanded of them.

"He's," Aramis began his lie but the look he was given by Captain Treville made him change his mind. "I don't know. He was sitting here one moment and the next time I looked he was gone."

Treville looked at Porthos who nodded his concurrence.

"Find him, Aramis. I want to talk to him next. Porthos, my office, now." With that Treville sharply turned to make his way back to his office.

"What should I tell him? What did you tell him?" Porthos asked as he watched Treville leave.

"The truth," Aramis replied. "Tell him exactly what happened and he will see the real truth. The Captain is not stupid. Athos was wrong in some of what he did, but he had good cause. Captain Treville will come to that conclusion."

Porthos was quiet for a few minutes, lost on thought.

"I can see there is more on your mind, Porthos," Aramis gently pried.

"You know this is not about Athos' disobedience. Athos is the scapegoat Roudon is using to drive everyone who is not nobility out of the musketeers. It could as easily have been you or me."

"True. Athos beat us to the punch, literally and figurately, in rebelling against Roudon's narrow-mindedness," Aramis agreed.

"And it's funny, because of all of us, I've always believed Athos is nobility himself."

"Have you ever asked him?" Aramis inquired. "When you were in Dieppe?"

Porthos grew silent again, thinking. "I have thought it, by his bearing, but I never asked out of respect for his privacy. We all have things in our past we'd prefer not to talk about. I feel that is especially so with Athos. And given his reluctance to talk of his past, I have let it go."

Aramis understood Porthos' point of view, but he wondered if they might have to violate Athos' privacy, if it meant the difference between him staying or getting kicked out of the musketeers.

"Best you not keep Treville waiting and I go searching for our wayward friend. I'm feeling I have the worse end of this stick."

"You do," Porthos said as he walked away. "Good luck."

Aramis nodded. "I fear I will need it."


	41. Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

Porthos burst through the Captain's door announcing, "This is my fault. Kick me out of the regiment."

The Captain kept a small smile from appearing on his face. "No one is going anywhere, though the thought of me retiring to the country has an appeal at the moment."

"You, quit?" Porthos made a rude noise. "Don't see that happening."

Now the small grin did surface. "Probably not, unless the King dismisses me."

"Never gonna happen," Porthos vehemently declared. "The King loves you."

"The King loves himself and merely tolerates the rest of the world." The Captain cleared his throat as if embarrassed by his semi-treasonous utterance. "To the matter at hand. I'm gathering that your mission under Lieutenant Roudon did not go smoothly."

Once again, Porthos' face hardened. "It's all my fault, not Athos'. I disrespected Roudon and am ready to face whatever discipline you declare. But Athos is innocent."

"Innocent? Are you saying Athos didn't strike Lieutenant Roudon? More than once?"

Porthos shifted his weight, clearly not wishing to answer that direct question.

"Come on, Porthos. Aramis already told me."

"He deserved it. I should have decked him myself."

"No, you shouldn't have, and Athos shouldn't have either. Though, it seems there might have been some mitigating circumstances," Treville admitted.

"If by mitigating circumstances you mean Roudon was being an ass, you are right."

Walking behind his desk, Captain Treville lowered himself into his chair. "You are an outstanding soldier. Courageous. Loyal. You can go far."

"Men will never follow me because of my skin color," Porthos interjected a little bitterly.

Treville sighed loudly. "People often irrationally fear things that are different from themselves."

"Oi. Even though I am the best fighter out of the lot of them. I could break them. But they don't fear me for that, for my strength, or my cunning. They fear me because I wasn't born a noble."

"Is it really that bad for you in the regiment?"

Porthos hesitated for a moment before answering his Captain's question. "You have always treated me fairly. And a handful of the other musketeers. The help, always. Serge complains about me eating too much, but he always gets me seconds, and even thirds. But the rest…" He shook his head. "I just keep reminding myself I am good and I have the right to belong here."

"And you do. I only pick the best. You are one of them."

Porthos swung his arm in an arc. "But you picked them."

Treville gave him a sad, half-smile. "Some, yes. Some no. Remember, I too take orders. From the King. And these days it seems like the Cardinal too." Once again, he sighed loudly. "I hope someday everyone can see in you what I and many others see."

"And for the rest? Those nobles out there that think I should be bringing them their horses, not riding shoulder to shoulder with them?"

Treville simply looked at him. He didn't need to speak the answer for they both knew.

"Ya, what I thought."

Bringing the conversation back to what it was supposed to be about, Treville asked, "Athos said he was the one that hit Roudon. Is that true?"

All the air seemed to depart from Porthos body and he sagged a little. "Yeah, he did. Defending me. Roudon was being an ass. Athos got fed up and slugged him. He told me, warned me not to rise to Roudon's bait and then he goes and does it himself."

"Because you are a good man who shouldn't be treated the way it appears Roudon did. And because Athos, for the short time I have known him, has an incredibly strong sense of honor, that I fear, will often lead him into trouble."

"Seems to me bein' honorable is a good thing," Porthos stated, defending his friend.

"Even a good thing can be carried too far."

"So, you are siding with him? Sayin' Roudon was right?" Porthos accused his Captain.

"No, what I am saying is, Athos was wrong, striking a superior officer. He could have handled it other ways."

Porthos shook his curly head. "You weren't there."

"I wasn't. But are you telling me Athos had no other course of action? He couldn't have simply walked away. Brought this matter to my attention upon your return?"

Porthos remained silent, but his opinion was clear as day on his face.

Treville gave a little nod to himself. "Thank you. You're dismissed."

But the streetfighter didn't move. "What are you going to do?" he demanded of Treville.

Now it was Treville's turn to remain silent.

Seeing his Captain was not going to say any more, Porthos turned sharply and stomped towards the door. Before he exited, he turned and said, "My mother was a slave who fought every day to give me a better life. She died trying to do that. I won't be run off by any of these nobles. But, if you do something to Athos, because he defended me, I will leave, because then I'll have lost all respect for the one noble here who I thought was above all this nonsense." With that, Porthos exited, slamming the door behind him.

Treville rubbed a weary hand over his weather-hewn face. "If only you knew Porthos, the surprises of your past. I wonder if you'd feel differently about me."


	42. Chapter 42

CHAPTER 42

As Aramis went on his hunt for Athos, he tried to think what he knew about his relatively new friend as an aid for where to search. As he walked along, he realized how little he really knew about Athos. Superficial facts in many cases, things one learns simply by living in close proximity to a person. For example, he had eaten enough meals with the man to know Athos didn't like nuts or peppers, though neither of those facts would help him find Athos now. But he also knew that Athos ate because it was a necessity of life and when intensely focused was apt to skip meals. Also, the swordsman did not enjoy eating with large groups, but in the garrison he had no choice and was growing accustom to it. So, that made looking in the mess hall a low priority.

Athos' room would be a logical place to look, unless Athos figured someone was going to come hunting for him and then it would be too obvious. A tavern was a solid choice, except for the time of day. There was no denying the man drank way more than was healthy and he did so to try to drown some sort of traumatic event in his past. But what that event was the tight-lipped man had never fully let on, other than once to indicate it may have involved a woman.

Athos' past was shrouded in mystery. Aramis didn't know where he was from, if he had any family, what he had done before he became a musketeer, even if Athos was his real name. It could be a pseudonym for all the swordsman had ever let on. He was good with a sword…but why? Where did he learn? His speech patterns and manners were those of someone who is, or has been around a lot of nobility. But if Athos was nobility, why didn't he say so? Why was he hiding the fact? Perhaps he was an illegitimate son?

The man knew his way around a horse and was an excellent rider, but again why and who taught him? His horse, Roger, was a superior piece of horseflesh, breeding that couldn't have been cheap. Where did Athos get such a fine steed? Yes, another mystery, though, Aramis thought, this path of thinking was helpful. While Athos seemed to tolerate people, barely, he did demonstrate a deep affinity for Roger. Aramis abruptly changed his path to head for the stables. Athos might not seek out solace from other humans, but he might from his horse.

Entering the barn, Aramis headed down the aisle toward Roger's stall, which was in a quiet back corner. Roger, like his master, preferred solitude and was a bit touchy about other horses and humans. It was safe to say he was not a favorite of the stable lads. Aramis' own horse, Fidget, and Porthos' horse, Flip, got along with the moody stallion in somewhat the same fashion he and Porthos got along with Athos, and in a way, he supposed it was quite amusing. Neither the horses or the men respected Athos' and Roger's boundaries and pushed their way past them.

Arriving at the door to Roger's stall, he looked through the iron bars, spotting Roger at the same time the black horse spotted him. Roger pricked his ears forward, then slicked them back with a stomped hoof as Aramis manipulated the latch to open the door.

"Don't you dare," he warned the animal. After giving him the evil eye for a few seconds more, Roger pricked his ears again then let them relax as he turned his attention back to a net of hay in the corner of his stall. Peering around the hazy stall the marksman spotted his quarry sitting in the corner, his back against the wall.

"Ah, there you are," Aramis said as he looked down at the man, whose head remained bowed. "Captain Treville wants to speak with you." As expected, Athos remained silent so Aramis dropped into the straw next to him. "You know, it's probably not a good idea to irritate the Captain by ignoring his summons," he chided mildly.

The silence continued, Athos not making any signs even to acknowledge Aramis' presence in the stall.

"You do plan to go see him, don't you?" Aramis finally asked out of desperation. "It wouldn't be good to ignore him."

Finally, Athos raised his head to look over at Aramis. "I'm leaving," he said succinctly.

It was only then that Aramis noted the saddlebags on the floor of the stall on the far side of the swordsman. "Athos," he said in a disappointed voice. "That's not the solution."

Intelligent green eyes stared at him. "You are mistaken. By my leaving, Captain Treville is not put in a position of having to remove me from the regiment and thereby weaken his authority."

Aramis shook his head slowly. "I don't understand."

"If I stay, Captain Treville will be forced to inflect a suitable punishment on me."

"He doesn't have to," Aramis interrupted.

Athos gave the marksman a disappointed look. "Aramis. I struck an officer. My leader. More than once. We both know that the punishment for my actions has to be severe. It was gross misconduct. At minimum, imprisonment, but removal from the regiment is probably most appropriate."

"But you had cause to strike him?" Aramis countered.

"No, I did not," Athos replied with a shake of his head. "Roudon was being disrespectful, making unflattering commentary and assigning Porthos all the menial tasks, treating him no better than if he were a slave."

"Exactly my point. You had cause."

"But he never physically harmed Porthos. Never, at any time, struck him in any manner."

"No," Aramis agreed reluctantly. "But he didn't treat him right."

Athos pushed off the ground, rising to his feet. Roger stopped eating, moved closer and nudged Athos with his nose. Obediently, the swordsman raised his hand and began scratching along the stallion's crest. "Does the King always treat his subjects right? Does a Comte his staff? A baker his apprentice? Life isn't fair and those in charge have been given certain power to wield. Hopefully, they use their authority in a beneficial manner. But if not, does a farmer have the right to assault his King? The staff their Comte? The apprentice his master? No, they do not."

Athos let out a sigh, stopped scratching Roger and turned to face Aramis. "Roudon's behavior was wrong. However," he said raising his had to forestall Aramis' words, "there was a proper way to handle it. I should have brought the issue to Captain Treville's attention when we returned. I should not have taken matters into my own hands, when it was not a life-threatening emergency. That is not the way a soldier behaves. I have shamed our Captain, the regiment and myself with my actions."

"That's bullshit, Athos."

"That's life, Aramis. And now, the best for all would be for me to leave on my own. This way I don't strengthen Roudon's position any further."

Aramis' frown deepened and he tilted his head sideways in puzzlement. "I'm not following."

"If Captain Treville removes me from the regiment as Roudon has demanded, it will appear that Roudon has won." Aramis still seemed perplexed so Athos said, "Roudon demanded that Treville kick me out of the regiment, correct?"

Aramis nodded in concurrence. "Yes. And he wanted you placed in the Chatelet."

"Not the Chatelet," Athos swore fervently, thinking back to the time he was imprisoned after Dieppe. After a second, Athos picked up his thread. "So, if Treville kicks me out of the regiment, it appears as if he has acquiesced to Roudon's demands, thereby making Roudon even more powerful. If I leave on my own, Captain Treville doesn't have to make any decision because the problem is solved."

"I can make my own decision," a voice drifted into the stall from the hallway.

"Captain!" Aramis turned to look at his commander. "We were just on our way to your office."

Treville gave him a skeptical frown. "Really? Doesn't seem that way. It looks more like someone was planning a road trip," he said, giving a nod towards the full saddlebags on the straw.

Athos straightened his back like a soldier at attention. Reaching up, he unbuckled his pauldron and held it out to his Captain. In a deep and formal-sounding voice he declared, "Captain Treville, I formally resign my commission."

"Athos!" Aramis exclaimed. "No."

Athos stood firm, his pauldron in his hand stretched out towards his Captain.

"I don't accept your resignation," Treville answered as he folded his arms across his chest to indicate he wasn't going to take the leather shoulder guard.

"You have to," Athos contradicted in an even tone. "It is the best solution."

"Who are you, soldier, to tell me, your Captain, what to do? Are you going to strike me next?" Treville asked, his voice tough as nails.

"Would it help?" Athos dead-panned in the dry manner he had perfected.

"No, it would not. Violence is not the answer to most disagreements. Though," Treville added with a hint of sadness, "sometimes it seems that way."

"Captain, you have to…" Athos began to insist, but his respect for Treville made him go silent when the Captain held up his hand.

"Athos, I don't deny your actions have put me between the devil and the deep sea. But this isn't the first time I have been put in an awkward position, especially by you three," he said referring to the two in front of him and the missing third party. "I will decide what your fate will be, Athos. And, so help me God if you try to leave, without my say so, I will hunt you down and drag you back here."

Athos appeared both concerned and affronted by the Captain's speech. "I am only trying to do what is best. For the regiment. For you."

"By sacrificing yourself?" Treville pointed out.

Athos shrugged as if to say his life wasn't important, which in his mind was often true.

"To my office. Now," Captain Treville commanded of Athos. "And don't get lost on the way." Looking over at Aramis, he instructed, "You take his saddlebags to his room." With that, he turned and walked away.

After he was gone, Aramis said, "Would you like me to help affix your pauldron back on your jacket?"

Athos, who had let his hand with the stylized leather guard drop to his side, lifted it once more and examined it. Then, brusquely, he shoved it at Aramis' chest, before turning and walking out of the stall leaving Aramis and Roger alone.

Aramis turned the black leather piece over in his hands, examining the sword marks already scratched into the surface in just the short time Athos had been a musketeer. He sighed so deeply that Roger must have felt bad for him and for once, in a show of friendship, touched him with his velvety black nose.

Shifting the pauldron to his right hand, he used his free hand to rub Roger's neck. "Your rider has a very low opinion of his worth. Someday I'm afraid it will get him into a situation where…" Aramis let his voice trail off not wanting to finish his thought aloud. "I'll tell you a secret, Roger. Like it or not, Athos has grown on me, and Porthos, and we have come to see him as our brother. And whether he likes it or not, we will constantly strive to make him see that he is worthy."

Aramis was sure it was simply a fly that caused Roger to shake his head, though it seemed as if the horse was questioning Aramis' last statement. With a small laugh, he gave Roger a firm pat. "Go ahead, doubt me. But I like a challenge. And Athos, he's one if I ever saw it! And I am very persistent. Just you watch and see."

Roger gave a small snort then went back to eating his hay. Aramis picked up the saddlebags, flung them over his shoulder. He left the stable and dropped the saddlebags and pauldron in Athos' room. "I like a challenge," he repeated to the air.


	43. Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

After meeting with Athos, Captain Treville took some time to consider his options on how to deal with the Athos-Roudon situation. No matter how hard he debated with himself, one course of action kept popping to the forefront and his gut told him it was the right one. So, the next morning at muster, when all the men were gathered once more, including Athos, who had been fetched from his room, the Captain announced his decision.

"As you are aware, there was an incident where a musketeer, while on a mission, not only disobeyed the orders of his commanding officer, but then went on to strike him. Discipline. Rank and order. Obeying orders. These are the backbone of a successful army. But it's trust, respect and confidence in your leaders that make a unit great. The musketeers are the King's chosen. We are supposed to be the best of the best. Yet what went on within our ranks should make us all ashamed."

The Captain raked the crowd with his piercing blue eyes, making some of the men shuffle their feet and look away.

"Athos," he continued, "Your behavior towards the officer, whose command you were under, was reprehensible. For disobeying orders and striking an officer you will spend the next month in the garrison's prison. Upon your release, you will spend the next month working as a laborer within the garrison. Your salary for the two months will be forfeited."

Athos stood still, head held high staring at a spot in the distance as his Captain announced his punishment. Aramis and Porthos gave their Captain looks of disbelief as they muttered under their breath. Treville saw this and called them out. "Gentlemen, is there an issue?"

The two musketeers exchanged glances and were about to speak when Athos interrupted. "There is no issue, Captain," he said, with a sharp glance at his two friends to ensure they knew he meant business. "I admit to the charges and submit to the punishment." After one more sharp look at his friends, to ensure they didn't contradict him, he dropped his eyes to the ground and stood there, the picture of submission.

The Captain gave Athos a little nod of gratitude and respect for his gracious submission to his fate. The crowd began to mill, but Treville wasn't done yet and called them to order once more.

"There is another issue that needs to be addressed in this regiment if we are to succeed. It also deals with respect…for your fellow musketeer."

The crowd grew quiet, though an undercurrent of unease ran through it.

"I'm a direct man so let me blunt. I'm aware that many of you who are nobility are questioning my decision to commission others, commoners, as musketeers. A good commander, and a successful one, takes advantage of all the assets available to him. Being nobility doesn't mean one is always the best at something. There are some truly great soldiers in the Army and it is those men I am bringing into this unit."

The undercurrent of rumbling grew louder as the nobility in the crowd uneasily glanced around at each other and then at the common soldiers. The common soldiers themselves were also uneasy, not quite believing what they were hearing and wondering if it was going to help, or cause more problems, a risk of which Captain Treville was well aware when he started down this path.

"Moving forward, it is my expectation that everyone in this regiment will be treated with respect. Officers and soldiers alike. And if I see otherwise, there will be consequences. Am I making myself clear?"

A half-hearted affirmation arose from the musketeers, most of whom, frankly, were still trying to process what their Captain had just said. Knowing he had planted the seed and there wasn't much more he could do at this point, Treville moved on to handing out the assignments of the day before dismissing the troops. With an air of tension, the musketeers went about their duties. The Captain had a feeling the next few months were going to be very interesting around the garrison.

Roudon had been instructed to report to Captain Treville's office before heading out to patrol the town, which was his assignment. He spoke briefly to the other men in the patrol before heading for the stairs to the Captain's office. As he passed through the crowd, a couple of the nobility stopped him for a brief word and Roudon seemed to be offering them advice, but of what sort was unknown.

Denis and Loys, who oversaw the garrison's prisoners whenever they had some, escorted Athos away. As he passed by his friends, Athos stopped, unbuckled his weapons belt and held it out to Porthos, who grudgingly accepted it. When he reached up, removed his pauldron and handed it to Aramis, a small cry of 'no' escaped Aramis' lips. But Athos' gaze on his friend was steadfast, ordering and pleading with him not to make a scene.

Aramis took the scarred leather, whispering, "I'll keep it safe."

After a curt nod to Denis and Loys to indicate he was ready, the three started toward the jail. When Aramis and Porthos began to follow, a sharp look and an unspoken order from Athos stopped them. So, they simply stood and watched quietly as he was led away.

When Athos was out-of-sight, Porthos finally exploded. "This isn't right." A few of the musketeers still nearby, surprisingly a mix of both nobility and common, nodded in agreement with the outburst.

Aramis, trying hard to trust in Captain Treville's decision, played peacemaker. "We have to trust in the judgement of the Captain. Athos striking an officer was wrong; he'll tell you that himself, and a punishment is in order. What we should be focusing on is what Captain Treville said about making this regiment, the musketeers, the finest fighting force in France. We need to work together, as a team. Support each other, help each other sharpen our skills until the mere word Musketeer, sends shivers down our enemy's spine!"

Treville who was able to hear Aramis' speech as he made his way back to his office suppressed a small smile when he saw the mixed group listening to the marksman. Aramis was respected by many on both sides of the equation and he was going to be a key if this was going to work.

As Treville made his way up the stairs to his office, he lamented over the fact that the person who could bridge the gap between the two sides most effectively was Athos. He had the background, the talent and the persuasive ability to mold this unit into a cohesive fighting group. And, though the swordsman seemed unaware of it, he possessed a talent to lead. One of Treville's greatest desires and challenges was to get the young man to see what he could be if he let himself. He had no doubt that Athos had the intelligence, courage and skill to lead the musketeers someday, to be his heir so to speak; that is if the man didn't self-destruct first.

On the corner of his porch, Roudon stood watching the crowd below disperse. "You have stirred up a hornet's nest," he offered, unsolicited, to Treville.

Treville didn't respond other than to indicate Roudon should follow him into his inner sanctuary. Once inside with the door shut, he gestured for Roudon to sit in one of the two chairs flanking a small table in the corner of the room. Treville had debated in his mind how best to approach this necessary conversation and had decided to try to win Roudon's cooperation voluntarily rather than to order it. Sitting in the chairs should make it more like a conversation than a command, he hoped.

"Do you know some of the best armies in history have been destroyed by infighting? The inability to work as a team destroyed them more surely than their enemy. I don't want that to happen to this regiment." Treville paused a moment trying to judge if Roudon was following. He wasn't sure.

"When I chose you to be one of my Lieutenants, I entrusted you with the health and welfare of my men and I didn't do that lightly. I saw in you an accomplished soldier, tactician and leader of men."

Roudon smiled and tried to appear humble, even though he wasn't successful. Finally, the Captain was acknowledging his worth. Maybe now that they were talking as equals, he could advance his own agenda.

"I am truly honored you chose me and I too want to make this the best regiment in all of France, the world even," Roudon declared with hubris. "Everything I do is to further that goal. That is why I am…" He paused to choose his words, not wanting to come on too strong. He really wanted to say shocked, appalled, dismayed, livid, but chose a milder word. "I am _concerned_ over some of the recruits."

Make his fingers into a steeple, Treville said evenly, "Yes. I do know you seem concerned over my including men from the regular army in the regiment."

"Commoners," Roudon couldn't help interjecting. "And men off the streets."

"Why does that bother you so much, Roudon?" Treville asked, curious as to how he would answer. "Surely you have to admit these men come with solid skills in many areas."

"A man's character and worth is defined by his birth and upbringing. After all, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. A regiment chosen by his Majesty to defend his royal family must be above reproach. Silk, not pig skin."

"And it is your belief that unless this regiment is made up of only nobility, it will not be able properly to serve its purpose," Treville summarized what was really the heart of the matter.

"If I may be blunt, Captain, with no disrespect, yes, that is my belief. I know you have brought people like Porthos and Aramis, common soldiers, into our ranks hoping somehow to strengthen the musketeers, though how you imagine that would happen, frankly I don't see. Nor am I clear how his Majesty would think it wise to commission them."

"Perhaps, his Majesty, who put me in charge of creating the musketeers, trusts in my judgement," Treville suggested with a slight edge of sarcasm to his voice.

Recognizing the briar-patch he was about to step into, Roudon changed course. "Have you considered that people like Porthos and Aramis might be better suited as workers in the garrison rather than actual musketeers? You say they bring a skill set from the Army that would benefit the regiment. Why not install them as teachers where they can impart their skills to all?"

"You mean, decommission them and hire them as workers in the garrison."

Roudon smiled, seeming pleased that his Captain was following his logic. "Exactly. They would still get paid, though not as much, of course, but more commensurate with their God-given position in life. I know there are many of us that would sleep better at night with this arrangement."

"I didn't realize my choice in musketeers was effecting your sleep," Treville declared mockingly, though it was lost on Roudon, who was too absorbed in his own ideas. "So, you want me to remove all the common soldiers from the regiment…"

"And hire them as workers, teachers. Really an excellent idea, Captain." Roudon was excited, feeling he was finally reaching his captain and was going to rectify the mistakes the man had made in developing the musketeers. "Yes, it would be very suitable, especially for men like Porthos."

"Like Porthos?" Treville prompted, curious to see how deep Roudon's prejudice ran.

Giving his Captain a frank look, he said, "Many of the nobility wouldn't even consider his kind fit to work anywhere but the fields. I am more enlightened and see a use for them in the Army."

As cannon fodder, Treville thought to himself.

"But his presence in this regiment is a distraction, one that could get someone killed," Roudon declared confidently, truly believing what he said. "Face it, the man is not a skilled rider, nor swordsman, but simply a street thug in clean clothes."

"You seem to have really thought this through."

"Oh, I have Captain. Ever since you brought them in. And I speak for all the nobility."

"All?" Treville questioned, knowing that at least a quarter of the regiment truly seemed unbothered by the 'commoners' as Roudon labeled them.

Roudon backed off a little, but with a caveat. "All of us of the nobility who may someday inherit our fathers' titles. Those of us who are first or second sons. I admit, by the time you get to the third sons and downwards, I think the seed gets a little frail, producing weaker sons."

The conceit of this man was never ending, Treville thought silently and he knew, at this point, he'd never convert the man to any other point of view. Unable to help himself, he asked, "And what of men like Athos?"

"There is no logic in the world that would allow dregs like him in the musketeers," Roudon spat with distain.

"Even if he is the best swordsman I have ever witnessed?"

"The best? Hardly. And what good are his skills if he is always drunk? He is not even fit to be a teacher."

"And yet he was, for a while, before he was commissioned. You himself took instructions from him," Treville pointed out.

"I tolerated his teaching, but learned nothing."

"Did Athos not defend the garrison against the thieves? At great peril to his person?" Treville reminded him of the incident shortly after Athos' arrival at the garrison.

Making a rude noise, Roudon countered, "He probably let them in and when the robbery went wrong, he switched sides. Captain Treville, and I mean no disrespect, but you seem blind to Athos' faults. I feel it is my duty to make you aware that there have even been whispers, ugly whispers, that he and you share an unnatural relationship. I, of course, know you are too upright a man to have such carnal desires. Your family has served our royalty for generations. Surely that speaks of the character of your forefathers and yourself. But when people cannot see a reason for something, such as making Athos a musketeer, they seek to explain it in other, unsavory ways."

Treville was not taken back by Roudon's revelations for he had heard the whispers himself. What did shock him was the depth of Roudon's hatred for Athos.

"Athos represents everything that is wrong and his removal, along with the reassignments we spoke of, will put this regiment on the path to glory," Roudon declared with utter conviction.

"You really do hate Athos, don't you?" Treville exclaimed. "You know nothing of his past. What if he were nobility, in hiding for some reason? Would your opinion of him change?

"Oh Captain. Don't be taken in by his manners and regal-sounding speech. At best he is some bastard son, raised near enough to the household to learn some manners. In fact, I believe that is the story I have heard of him. But I do not believe it. I think he is just another street rat that learned a little etiquette, perhaps from serving in a noble household at one point, and is trying to pass himself off as one of his betters. He needs to be thrown back into the streets where he belongs."

Treville gave up any last hope of convincing this man. He'd have to figure out another way to keep the regiment from dividing. No matter what, Roudon was going to be the wedge, not the bond.

"I appreciate your candor here today, though I find I can't agree with you on your perceptions. I was hoping you'd be able to see past your prejudices, but I now know that is an impossible task for you. As tempted as I am to strip you of your rank as Lieutenant, that would be wrong. You made some judgement calls that were questionable, but you have done no grievous wrong, other than the fact you are incredibly shallow-minded. But so are many in this world, I suppose," he ended wearily.

"I would like to be enlightened on the judgement calls you feel I made that were questionable." Roudon demanded haughtily.

"How about the decision to forgo a rescue attempt when Athos and the horses were taken by the Spanish?"

"As you have reminded us on countless occasions, Captain, the mission comes first over any personal hardships. Going after the horses and Athos was not the mission. Aramis and Porthos, by defying my orders, put the mission at risk. Look what their defiance caused. The men we lost in the forest. That would have never occurred if there hadn't been the attempt to rescue Athos. Many good men died for the life of one, and not even a good one. I made the right call. It is Aramis and Porthos who should be sitting here receiving your lecture."

"I believe they thought accomplishing the mission and the rescue were not diametrically opposed."

With a snort, Roudon pointed out, "The men who died in the forest might think otherwise."

Treville sat back in his chair letting the room go quiet. He was making no progress here and if anything was digging a deeper hole. No good was going to come of this conversation as he had hoped. So instead of prolonging this unsuccessful effort, he drew it to a close.

"I ask that you think upon our conversation of today. It is clear your mind is made up and you are firm in your convictions. However, know this. As a leader in this regiment, no matter how you feel, I expect you to treat all the men with the dignity and respect they deserve. And if I see or hear otherwise, we will be having a conversation about your removal," Treville threatened as he rose from his chair.

"And you too, Captain, should think upon the good council I freely offered today. This regiment can't survive otherwise," Roudon answered as he too rose from his chair.

Treville's eyes narrowed. "That sounds a bit like a threat, Lieutenant."

"It was not meant as a threat, but a mere statement of fact. As you yourself have said, the regiment can't continue in this manner. Something has to change."

Tired of this whole conversation, Treville dismissed Roudon. Once the man had exited the room, Treville walked over to his liquor cabinet and poured a stiff drink. As he downed the fiery liquid, he wondered where this would head next.

Roudon came down the stairs and was greeted by a pack of his supporters. "How did it go?" one called out to get his attention.

He stopped, turned and faced his followers. "Not well, I am afraid. Captain Treville remains blind to how his decisions are sullying our ranks. I fear we will need to escalate this to the next level."

Murmurs of the King and Cardinal travelled on a whisper through the crowd. Supporters of the other side of the argument, who were standing on the outside of the group, overhead the whispers and began to wonder if they were backing the wrong horse.


	44. Chapter 44

CHAPTER 44

Athos huddled under the blanket, his back to the door, shivering in misery. It wasn't as bad this time as when he first arrived, injured, at the garrison he kept reminding himself. But withdrawal, in any form was not fun, especially when you were going through it alone. He went through cycles of wishing either Aramis or Porthos was with him to offer comfort or being happy they weren't there to see his suffering. He knew he had brought this on himself, first by not learning his lesson the first time he dried out and retreating once more to the bottle for comfort. Secondly, he had gone too far in striking Roudon and putting Treville in a position where he had to punish him.

After the swordsman had been placed under arrest, Captain Treville had been called out of town to accompany the King on a state visit. Injuries and prior missions unfortunately left Roudon as the ranking officer in the garrison and unless Treville wanted to do an on the spot promotion, he had no choice but to leave him in charge.

Word of the unrest in the garrison had already made it to the ears of the Cardinal's spies, and no doubt to the man in red himself. Treville didn't dare make any more controversial moves until he was able to judge which way the winds in the palace were blowing. Had Roudon somehow managed to get the King's ear on his quest to rid the musketeers of anyone who was not nobility? The King was fickle enough to listen and act, especially if the Cardinal, who was no friend of the musketeers, was hissing in his Majesty's ear.

Reluctantly, Treville left on the mission, taking many of Roudon's stanch supporters with him and leaving Aramis, Porthos and who he thought were on-the-fence musketeers behind to, hopefully, balance against Roudon. Before he left, he pulled Aramis and Porthos aside and warned, ordered and nearly begged them not to cause any trouble with Roudon while he was gone. As he rode out the gate later that day, he wondered what kind of regiment he'd find upon his return.

It wasn't until they were on the road, escorting the King and Queen on a visit to Lorraine, that the fact that Athos would most-likely suffer from withdrawal sickness presented itself to Treville's mind. Treville wasn't a cruel man and when he had ordered imprisonment for Athos, it wasn't his intention to make the man suffer. It was going to be brutal for Athos to go through the sickness alone. It simply never crossed his mind. Treville hoped that Aramis or Porthos would be more mindful than he and would visit Athos in jail to offer aid and comfort as the swordsman dried out.

However, that was not to be under Roudon's watch. Like their Captain, neither Aramis or Porthos thought about Athos going through withdrawal, but oddly enough the one who did was Lieutenant Roudon. He had an uncle, an embarrassment to the family, who drank too much and periodically, the family would dry him out. His uncle was confined to his rooms, with discreet servants and a small measure of wine daily to ease him of his addiction. Still, Roudon had witnessed first-hand the suffering his uncle went though, even with the comforts offered him. Roudon was going to be sure Athos was offered nothing, so his suffering would be as great as possible.

First, he placed guards, one hundred percent loyal to himself, on the prison, Then, he banned all visitors. Next, he had the cell stripped of all but one small, thin blanket. Let Athos feel the shivers and shakes the withdrawal would wrack upon his body. He recalled his uncle, when detoxing, would crave food, especially sweets which seemed to help with the alcohol cravings. He instructed his loyal guards that the food that was delivered by Serge not be given to Athos. Athos was only to have a few scraps of bread each day. Roudon also had the guards ration Athos' water to the bare amount necessary to keep him alive.

Last, but not least, when Athos was at his worse, Roudon would visit him and add to his torture. He had been concerned that Athos might attack him, and so he had the swordsman chained to the wall by his right wrist, the one with the semi-healed hole in the palm. There was enough chain that Athos could walk around most of his cell, which was quite large since normally it was used to hold multiple prisoners before they were sent off to one of Paris' official prisons. Roudon knew exactly how far the chain would stretch and, if he was worried about Athos attacking him, he would retreat to the safe boundaries. Only once, and Roudon had to admit Athos was quite delusional that time, had Athos tried to attack him. But the chain drew the swordsman up short, cruelly grinding into the skin on his wrist and causing rivulets of blood to soak his shirt sleeve. It had delighted Roudon to see the man sink so low, behaving like a wild animal.

Another of his favorite taunts was to enter the cell with a full bottle of wine and then proceed to spill it over the dirty, stone floor in a slow measured fashion. He'd then sit on a stool, in the safe zone, and watch to see if Athos was desperate enough to try to lap the wine from the puddle on the floor like a cur. He'd watch in sadistic delight as Athos sat on the floor, since the mattress from the cot had been removed, quivering as his body demanded he debase himself and lap the wine, while the small amount of pride he had left tried to keep his cravings in check. Only once had Athos' mind and body betrayed him and unwillingly, he found himself on his hands and knees, hovering over the puddle of dirt-tainted wine. Had Roudon's cruel voice not whispered 'Do it. Drink like the dog you are', Athos had no doubt he would have done his best to lick the wine from the floor. But Roudon's voice touched a piece of his rational mind that still existed and he swiftly rose from the floor and launched himself at his tormentor. The iron shackle dug into his wrist though he blocked the pain as he struggled to gain the inches, he needed to reach Roudon. But it was not to be and the Lieutenant, laughing at him, remained tauntingly out of reach.

After that incident, Athos vowed never to give Roudon the satisfaction of seeing him break again. So, when Roudon entered the cell on one of his torture missions, Athos remained lying on the floor, facing the wall, back to his tormentor. No matter what the man did, Athos didn't give him the gratification of seeing him break, even if it meant clenching his fist so tight his nails cut bloody crescents into his palms, or he bit the inside of his cheek until the metallic taste of blood coated his tongue. He remained unresponsive.

Roudon, aggravated because his prisoner was spoiling his fun, upped his torture tactics. One time he poured an entire bottle of wine over Athos' body. His clothes greedily soaked up the liquid leaving Athos smelling like a distillery. That night, Athos was nearly driven out of his mind smelling what his body craved, but couldn't achieve. At one point in the night, he stripped himself of the wine-smelling garments and wrapped himself in the moth-eaten blanket, shivering his way through the rest of the darkness. Just before dawn he got dressed again, not intending to give his captors any idea how badly their cruelty had affected him.

At the end of three weeks, his cravings were gone but his misery continued. His right wrist was infected, his palm growing stiff again and a low fever settled in his body, not enough to kill him but enough to make him miserable. From only being offered water and stale bread, he dropped weight from his already lean physique. His clothes and his body were so pungent even the rats in the cell had taken to avoiding him.

Roudon entertained a secret hope that Athos might die of his own accord in that miserable cell, but his wish was not fulfilled as the swordsman stubbornly clung to life. Aramis and Porthos had requested to visit Athos the first week of his imprisonment and every week thereafter, but they were brusquely ushered away. The two had debated whether to push the issue, but then they remembered their promise to Treville, not to cause any issues while he was gone, so they left when they were told.

At the end of the fourth week, his prison time served, Athos was removed from his cell during morning muster and made stand in front of the entire regiment, while Roudon made an example of him. After the dim lighting of the cell, the morning sun, even though weak, burned and made his eyes tear. Malnutrition and fever left him weak and though he tried to stand still, he couldn't manage it and trembled before his fellow soldiers.

Roudon droned on, repeating Athos' crimes and embellishing upon them. At one point he rolled up a sleeve and had the regiment bear witness to the wound on his forearm, the one he claimed Athos gave him in the cell when he had attacked him without provocation. In reality, he had been injured by a street urchin, who had attacked him when Roudon had stopped him from stealing. The boy, whom he had grabbed by the collar, had turned on him and slashed him with a piece of metal. The iron was sharp enough to cut the skin on Roudon's arm. Furious at being attacked by one of those he despised, he had drawn his sword and run the boy through. The baker, the victim of the theft, had been grateful that Roudon had solved his problem once and for all. It hadn't been the first time the street rat had stolen from him, but it was now his last.

Aramis and Porthos were horrified at the condition of their friend, but they restrained themselves from rushing forward because of their promise to Treville, and due to the mood of the men surrounding them. In the four weeks Roudon had been leading the Musketeers in Treville's absence, it seemed more of the men were flocking to his platform. Those in the musketeers who were not nobility, he, Porthos and a handful of others, were slowly being isolated. They feared if Captain Treville did not return soon, they would be run out of the garrison, or worse, by Roudon and his supporters. It was amazing how much Roudon had been able to influence his peers.

That day, as every day for the last few weeks, Aramis and Porthos and the rest of the commoners were assigned to the worst duties of the day. Usually, it was patrolling the worst sections of Paris. On particularly nasty days, it was standing guard at the Palace, outside, even though the King was not in residence. Sometimes it was working in the armory, polishing, sharpening and repairing the never-ending pile of weaponry. And once, when the stable lads had a bout of the runs from eating God-knows-what leaving the stable shorthanded, they cleaned stalls, brushed horses, polished tack and saddled horses for all their fellow brethren gaining new appreciation for the life of a stable lad. That night they stunk so bad they were forced to ride out to the river and bathe. No one wanted their stench in the washrooms of the garrison.

Aramis and Porthos had thought they smelled bad after that assignment, but nothing compared to the smell of dirt and sickness wafting off of Athos as they approached him after Roudon had released the men to their duties. Athos had just stood there, in a daze, as the men gave him a wide berth as they went about their duties.

Trying not to cringe as he approached him, Aramis placed a hand on Athos arm to guide him away. Being a field medic, he could smell that somewhere, his friend was sporting a nasty infection and it took only a second for him to spot the swollen right hand.

"What are you doing?" Roudon's voice boomed out as Aramis began to lead Athos away.

Aramis stopped, gave Porthos a warning glance to behave, and put on his best disarming smile as he turned to face Roudon. "As the resident medic, I'm taking Athos to get cleaned up so I can examine him. Surely you can smell the odor of infection."

"All I smell is piss and filth. You have duties of which to attend. He can look after himself. And Athos, I expect you cleaned up and present at muster tomorrow or so help me God I will throw you right back in prison." Turning away, Roudon headed for Treville's office which he had taken to using since the Captain had left.

Aramis and Porthos stood, watching the man leave as they debated their next move.

"Go," croaked the rusty voice, stripped of all the normal rich baritones that had once made up Athos' melodic tones.

"And what are you going to do? You can barely stand," Aramis accused Athos. "I'm not leaving you alone."

"I'll manage. Go to the stream. Bathe," he replied, struggling to get his words out.

"You need more than a bath. You need medical attention too," Aramis contradicted his friend.

"Later. I'll manage," Athos stubbornly repeated. "Go."

Knowing when he was on the losing end of an argument Aramis went for the compromise. "Here's what we're going to do. Porthos will go to your room, pack some clean clothes, towels, swing by the kitchen and grab some food and meet us in the stable. I'll escort you there, saddle Roger, somehow get you in the saddle and then pray to God you can actually ride by yourself to the stream."

"I can. Roger knows way. No need for God."

"So you say," Aramis replied, rolling his eyes heavenward and saying a simple prayer for stubborn friends. "When we can, we'll come to the stream."

"Don't shirk your duties," Athos rasped.

"My God Athos, you are the only one worried about our duties. Today, like many days in the past, we are to patrol just outside the Court of Miracles, Porthos' old stomping grounds, trying to keep the riff-raft from stealing hapless strangers blind."

"Many of them are just tryin' to survive," Porthos rumbled, sticking up for his old mates.

"I don't care if they rob the rich merchants who are too stupid to stay out of that section of town. But I don't like when there is violence, which we are seeing more of," Aramis noted, which caused Porthos to nod in agreement.

"I don't like or understand it myself," Porthos said in a puzzled tone. "You can rob a person without hurtin' them. Slip in, slip out. I don't know what they are teachin' them these days, but I have half a mind to make a visit and find out," Porthos declared as he pondered why things had changed so much since his days of living there.

"Please," Aramis cajoled. "I only want one patient at a time to take care of and I know from the past this one is a handful," he said looking meaningfully at Athos who had begun to shuffle away towards the stable. "I have half a mind to let him try to saddle his own horse. I have a feeling Roger and I would both get a laugh."

"It ain't right, Aramis."

"Oh, I wouldn't actually do it," Aramis replied, a little hurt that Porthos would think that of him.

"No, I don't mean that. I know you'd never do anything to hurt Athos. I mean what Roudon did to him in the cell. He tortured him. You know it, I know it and I can't see how the rest of the musketeers that saw him today couldn't know it."

Feeling better, Aramis replied, "Yes. You and I see that they tortured him. It makes my blood boil, that and the fact I can't treat him now. But, as for the others, people see and hear what they want. And at the moment, the majority of the musketeers, at least a majority of the nobility, want to see the picture Roudon is painting for them and hear the lies he is weaving. Captain Treville best return soon, or those of us who don't have the blessed blood running in our veins may have to vacate the musketeers if we want to survive. Look at what Roudon did to Athos and he got away with it. Makes me wonder what is next on his agenda and if we want to be here for it."

"You're not serious. Run away? I have never run away from anything and I don't plan starting now," Porthos declared, anger clearly coloring his voice.

"Don't think of it as running away, but more of a strategic retreat. Surely you have been in enough battles to know that sometimes it is better to retreat and fight when the odds are more in one's favor."

"Still don't like it," Porthos muttered grumpily.

"Nor do I, so let's hope it doesn't come to that. For now, let's focus on getting Athos back on his feet." With that, Porthos headed for Athos' room and the kitchen and Aramis hustled after Athos towards the stable before the stubborn man did try to saddle Roger by himself.


	45. Chapter 45

CHAPTER 45

It was well after midday by the time Aramis and Porthos managed to get to the stream unable to get out of their assignment any earlier. It had been a particularly busy day in the old section of Paris near the Court of Miracle where they had been assigned to patrol. Desperate to get back to make sure Athos was alright, Porthos had risked his life to find an old acquaintance and ask them to cease robbing, for just one day, so he and Aramis could leave. Aramis had been concerned when Porthos told him his plan, and while the streetfighter was gone, Aramis spilt his time between worrying about Athos and fretting about Porthos. As a man of action, standing around waiting was agony for the marksman. Finally, Porthos returned, a deal struck though he wouldn't reveal the terms, and they were free to go, knowing that 'magically' the thievery in the area would halt, at least until the morn.

Quickly, they retrieved their mounts and headed for the stream. As they approached, Aramis let out a sigh of relief when he spotted Athos, curled on the grass appearing to be asleep. It seemed their friend had managed to bathe as evidenced by their eyes that could see him freshly dressed, his old clothes in a heap, and by their noses which detected no ungodly stench as they neared.

As they approached, they realized he wasn't as unaware of their presence as they thought at first. When they dismounted and walked to where he lay, they saw his left hand ready on his pistol. Had they been anyone else, they had a strong feeling they would be looking down the muzzle of the weapon.

"I see you bathed," Aramis said easily as he dropped to the ground near Athos' side.

The swordsman removed his hand from his gun, struggled upright and once he was sitting, he leaned backwards against the rocks behind him cradling his swollen right hand. Strategically, it was a good place to be, with the rock as a shield behind him. The other two musketeers were impressed by how much Athos had learned in his short time as a soldier; the man was a natural on many levels.

Porthos, who always had a nose for food, spotted the package that Serge had packed, unopened, on the ground a few feet away. Picking it up along with a canteen of water, he walked back to where Aramis and Athos were sitting in the grass. With a slight grunt, he dropped to the ground next to them.

"You forgot to eat your lunch," he said as he dug into the bundle to see what the old cook had packed.

"And your dinner and your breakfast for the last month it would seem," Aramis said running a practiced eye over Athos, whose open shirt allowed him to see a good portion of the man's torso.

Athos shrugged his shoulders so his shirt didn't reveal so much to the prying eyes of the medic-musketeer. "My recent accommodations were a bit…lacking," Athos said drily as he accepted the meat stuffed roll that Porthos held out to him.

Aramis, who could contain himself no longer, looked his friend straight in the eye declaring, "Roudon tortured you. Look at your hand. Your sword hand!"

Athos, who was slowly nibbling at the edge of his sandwich, knowing his system was not accustom to such food, did nothing to acknowledge he heard Aramis' outburst. He did not even glance down at his injured hand.

"He needs to be punished, kicked out of the musketeers for what he did and who he is," Porthos added between mouthfuls of food.

Knowing his friends weren't going to let this conversation drop, Athos felt he had to respond in some fashion. "I don't disagree that Roudon is…" he stopped, struggling for a word then gave up.

"How about a monster?" Aramis suggested as he rose, went to his saddle bags and brought back his medical supplies. "How bad is it?" he asked as he squatted in front of Athos.

"I had full movement up until the infection set in in the wrist. Now things are swollen so I don't really know."

Aramis went about examining, cleaning and preparing a poultice. Athos sat there, silently, putting up with Aramis' ministrations. The sandwich that Porthos had given him, forgotten, lying on the ground where he had dropped it during a particularly painful part of Aramis' cleansing process.

Unexpectedly, Athos blurted out, "I had time to…reflect while I was in prison."

"On what?" Porthos asked with curiosity as he dug through the generous pack that Serge had provided. The old cook was a wise man and knew when Porthos had asked for food for Athos, that the food would really be feeding all three of them. He tried to offer some apple slices to Athos who waved them off.

Porthos' question was a very good one, though Athos knew he couldn't or rather wouldn't enlighten them totally. One of the things he had been thinking about, back in that cell, was his life before he renounced his title and when his father was still alive. He had dwelled upon a good number of things, though mostly the disagreements between him and his father which were numerous and stretched back practically his entire childhood and into adulthood. It seemed he rarely could live up to the expectations of his father, no matter how hard he tried. If there hadn't been such a strong resemblance to his ancestors, Athos might have questioned his parentage. While it was clear they were father and son, they were cut from two entirely different pieces of cloth.

As a young lad, Athos studied history as part of his tutoring and he was intimately aware of the well-established class system in France. However, thanks to a rather enlightened teacher he had while he was in Paris studying, he had come to question if a class system was the only way to run a country. His instructor had planted seeds of change in his young students' minds based on the ideals of Athenian democracy, the Roman Republic and Magna Carta. The liberal minded teacher, who shared this knowledge with his students, was fired when the head of the academy got wind of his ideals. A school for the instruction of the sons of the nobility had no room for such radical ideas. These young men were expected to grow up and take their place in society, serving their King, running their estates and having children to raise as the next generation of nobility. The radical ideals of democracy and self-determination had no place in their lives.

But the ideas had stuck with Athos and when he had returned to the de la Fère estate, he had tried to implement a few small changes. Changes which gave the people of Pinon more say in their lives. But it had failed badly on both sides. His father, when he found out, had been furious and practically called him a traitor. And surprisingly, the inhabitants of Pinon were no readier for the freedoms Athos had offered them than his father was to accept the ideas. It had struck him as odd at the time, and strangely enough, that is what he had contemplated on the long days in his cell. And probably foolishly, he attempted to share those conclusions with his friends now.

"People don't like change. What Captain Treville is doing, mixing on an equal level the nobility and the common, neither side knows for sure if it's good."

Porthos frowned as he stopped eating and looked over at Athos, clearly upset. "Are you saying Roudon is right? That we don't belong in the musketeers because we aren't nobility!"

Athos didn't answer, couldn't answer. He never should have started a conversation like this when his mind was in such a muddled state. He had a point he'd set out to make, but his thoughts were too jumbled to articulate it clearly. So, he did the only thing he could think to do which was to shrug his shoulders a gesture which was further mis-understood.

"That man tortured you, Athos! It was bad enough he convinced Captain Treville to put you in jail, but then Roudon deliberately went out of his way to make your life hell. How can you defend him!" Porthos demanded, his voice rising in pitch.

Aramis raised Athos' right hand, holding it aloft. "Porthos is right. How can you defend him? Look at what he did to you! To your sword arm. It's bad enough your palm was skewered by that crazy Spaniard, but now one of the men who is supposed to be on your side mangled your wrist. What if it doesn't heal correctly? What if the infection spreads up your arm and you lose it? What about that change!"

Athos looked at his wrist, then from one friend to the other. He was so tired, so drained and he knew he wasn't making sense to his friends. Wearily, he dropped his chin to his chest. "Change is scary," he murmured before closing his eyes and drifting off.

Porthos was about to say something more but Aramis gave him a quick head shake to ask him not to speak. Aramis lowered Athos' wrist gently, letting it come to rest in the swordsman's lap. Rising, he motioned for Porthos to follow him towards his horse.

Once out of Athos' hearing, Porthos grumbled, "He's not making sense."

Aramis, who had reached his horse, began rooting through his saddlebags. "Torture can do strange things to a person's mind."

"You don't have to tell me that," Porthos replied darkly, the timbre of his voice dropping ominously. "I've seen him tortured before."

Aramis suddenly remembered what Porthos and Athos had faced on their first journey together. Turning back to face his friend, he said, "Yes. You have. I'm sorry."

Porthos brushed aside the apology for it was not needed. "And he didn't break then. Why would he now?"

"He's not broken, Porthos. He's simply unwell, not thinking clearly. He'll be fine after some rest."

They returned to Athos where Aramis went about applying the poultice and wrapping his friend's raw wrist while he was unconscious. The medic was fairly confident, if the wounds were kept clean, the swordsman would make a complete recovery. None of the ligaments or tendons seemed injured and there was still good mobility despite the swelling.

When he was done, Aramis recommended they all rest for a while before heading back to the garrison. They still had few solid hours of daylight left. Athos was rolled onto his side, wrist carefully cradled. Porthos too stretched out on the grass in the sunshine to doze. Aramis stayed awake, unofficially on guard, though there really wasn't a need. However, his mind was a whirling mass of 'what ifs' and 'how tos' and he doubted that he could fall asleep even if he wanted to. Roudon's actions were haunting him, so he sat, watching the water running in the stream and tried to think of a way out of this intolerable situation.

Two hours later as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, he roused his friends, for it was time to be getting back. Athos woke, still quite groggy, and his friends had to help him a little in mounting Roger. But like the consummate rider he was, once in the saddle he had no trouble; riding was as natural as walking to him.

The ride back to the garrison was a quiet affair, each musketeer lost in his own thoughts. As they entered under the gate, Aramis glanced up at Treville's porch, hoping that in their brief absence their Captain had returned. However, his hopes were dashed when the door opened and a frowning Roudon stepped out onto the porch.

It was as if a dark shadow dropped over the courtyard and though he said nothing, the three musketeers felt the icy cold, disapproving stare of Roudon on them. They dismounted and handed their horses to the stable lads before making their way to their quarters. Only after they were safely out of sight of Roudon's prying eyes did they feel they could breathe freely once more.

The days that followed were similar in nature and not pleasant. Everywhere they went, the Inseparables felt Roudon's disapproving gaze upon them. Athos wouldn't elaborate on what he said down at the stream, no matter how hard Aramis cajoled him and eventually the marksman gave up, at least for the moment. They did decide, collectively, that their best course of action was to lay low and wait for Captain Treville's return. While it might have been a sensible idea it was hard to implement. Roudon was going out of his way to make their lives miserable, along with all those whom he deemed not worthy of being a musketeer.

In spite of all their horrible assignments, Athos' wrist and hand did begin to heal, though slowly.

Roudon made sure that on any assignment there was never any more than two 'commoners', as he came to call them, as a part of the effort. He also arranged that the commoners' shifts were split up to keep their numbers low and scattered. As for Aramis, Porthos and Athos, he never let them be on any assignments together. Given that in a regiment of sixty there were only ten soldiers who were not nobility, this wasn't a hard feat. Roudon's rationale was to keep the commoners apart, giving them no chance to congregate, where they might come up with ideas. He felt it would be easier to get rid of them once and for all if they were kept separate. Isolate them. Drive them out of the musketeers. This became Roudon's obsession and when it didn't work fast enough, he took it a step further.


	46. Chapter 46

CHAPTER 46

"Athos, do you need to get your hair cut?" Aramis half-joked as he stitched up another sword slice on his friend. It seemed in the brief times the two were able to seek out each other, or rather he sought out Athos, the marksman was forced to provide some form of medical aid. "I swear you have gotten zig and zag mixed up," he complained as he tied off the knot on his neat little stitches. "Is your hand still bothering you?"

As usual, Athos didn't reply but sat there grumpily, tolerating Aramis' doctoring. His hair wasn't interfering with his swordsmanship. The issue was Roudon, who was making a habit of sending him on missions without enough support. The swordsman had a sneaking suspicion this was the Lieutenant's new way of trying to get rid of him. Drive him out of the unit or have him get killed on a mission. He suspected Roudon hoped it would be the latter.

Pondering while Aramis stitched, Athos wondered if either of his friends questioned, as he did, the composition of the men on the missions since Treville left. There was rarely more than one common soldier on any assignment. And though he had no way to prove it, so far, he swore that the nobility was leaving the common soldiers to fend for themselves in sword fights, deliberately not coming to their aid when needed. More than once he'd been set on by multiple opponents and the nobility never had any time to assist him. Being a consummate swordsman, he was able to handle these challenges, mostly, though as Aramis had noted, he was getting nicked more than was his norm. Some of the other common soldiers had not been so lucky.

The musketeer Henri, the son of a baker, had not fared as well. After repeatedly being sent on assignments with impossible odds, Henri quit the musketeers and went back to his father's shop. Simeon had not been as fortunate. He had no chance to quit because he was killed on a mission. His body had not even been brought back to Paris for a proper burial in the musketeers' graveyard. Roudon claimed it was because Simeon had asked to be buried in the graveyard of the small church where he died from his wounds. But for some reason, that answer did not ring true with Athos.

One miraculous day when Athos had a few hours to himself, he rode out to the church where Simeon had supposedly died and was buried. When he arrived, and questioned the priest, it didn't exactly surprise him that the religious man had no idea what he was talking about when he asked to see where the dead musketeer had been interred. Yes, the priest had heard of musketeers fighting with some bandits that were bothering a nearby village, but none had been brought to his church. Leaving the priest with a small donation to make up for what seemed like his odd behavior, Athos rode away towards the village.

The road wound in and out of a gloomy forest, a perfect spot for an ambush. He rounded a blind curve and immediately reined in Roger. The ground and the edges of the forest clearly showed a battle had been fought in this area. The trees bore marks of passing bullets and the ground cover was crushed and scuffed in many places.

Dismounting, he instructed Roger to stay while he walked in an ever-widening pattern looking for something, though he wasn't sure what until he saw it. Marks of something, or someone, being dragged through the trees. After following the tracks into the forest for half a mile, he drew up short when the trail ceased at a rather large dead tree trunk which was laying on its side on the forest floor. With trepidation, he clambered over the trunk, then nearly lost his dinner when he saw what was on the other side. A body, or what was left of it after the wild animals of the forest had had their way with it. There was no doubt in his mind he had found the missing musketeer though he'd never be able to prove it. The body had been stripped naked, nothing left behind to identify it. However, Athos was willing to stake his life on the fact that it was Simeon.

Hoping to find some parcel of proof, he cast about in a circle around the area, but he could find no signs of any clothes, or anything that could aid in a positive identification. Hating that the body was already too ravaged to try to take back for a proper burial, at least not without a cart, Athos reluctantly left and returned to the patiently waiting Roger. The black stallion sensed his rider's low-spirits and prodded him with his warm nose. Absent-mindedly, Athos rubbed the horse's muzzle, then allowed himself the luxury of a few minutes of grief while burying his face in the stallion's thick mane. When was this going to end? He had no proof, but he was sure this was Roudon's work. Had the obsessed Lieutenant actually killed Simeon, just because he was not of noble birth? Or had he simply instructed the rest of the men to not assist and the bandits killed Simeon? Either way it was murder Athos felt, sure as if Roudon had shot Simeon himself.

Shaking off his grief, Athos gathered up Roger's reins, mounted and slowly rode back to the garrison, his mind fully occupied trying to figure out how to rid the musketeers of Roudon. And in the end though he didn't yet have a plan, he knew one thing; he would not get his friends involved. He and he alone would bring Roudon down.

When he arrived back at the garrison, it was at the tail end of dinner and even though he knew if he went to the dining hall there would still be food available, he decided against it for two reasons. The first was he might see Roudon, and the second was he might see Aramis and Porthos. At the moment, he didn't trust himself to see any of them without untold consequences. Instead, he swiped an apple from the stash the stable lads kept hidden in the barn to bribe the horses and headed to his room. He got there without anyone noticing and once inside, firmly shut and latched the door. Being disturbed was the last thing he wanted tonight.

Casting his eyes hopefully around his room, he realized there was no wine to be found, not an unusual circumstance these days. Since his last unpleasant detox in jail, he had been cutting back on his drinking. Not giving it up, no that he wasn't ready to do, and maybe never would be, but he did try to keep it from being excessive and controlling. And one of the measures he had taken was not to keep full bottles of wine lying around his room. If he wanted to drink, he had to make an effort to do so by going to a tavern.

Stripping off his weapons and outer garments, he lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to find sleep. The few snatches he did manage to grab were filled with nightmares of Simeon. The crack of dawn found him more exhausted than when he had laid his head down.

Rolling out of bed, he splashed some water on his face, dressed, put his weapons belt on and then did a few stretches and maneuvers with his rapier to ease his stiff muscles. When he was done, he sheathed his blade and headed outside. Musketeers were starting to assemble in the courtyard. Treville's routine had been meal, then muster, figuring a well-fed soldier is a more attentive one. Athos always liked the routine because he had longer to prepare for muster after a hard night of drinking, as long as he was willing to forgo breaking his fast.

However, shortly after Roudon took over he had reversed the order, muster then meal, if there was time for food, which often, for common soldiers, there was not. Just another way Roudon had found to make their lives miserable. Somehow the nobles always had enough time to get their meal, but the commoners were assigned tasks which left them starting the day without food.

Athos joined the men in the courtyard looking for, but not seeing, Aramis or Porthos. It really wasn't a huge surprise for Roudon had done an excellent job of keeping them separated. Athos had no idea if Aramis and Porthos saw each other more often than he saw them, but he suspected not. The Inseparables had been separated and surprisingly he had mixed feelings about it. After his brother's and wife's death, he vowed never to allow anyone to get that close to him again. Yet those two had gotten partially around his defenses and he found he missed them.

Looking about, Athos saw only two other soldiers who were not nobility this morning. Had others quit like Henri and he hadn't heard? Or worse, died like Simeon? His attention was brought back to the present when he heard his name called out to go on a mission with five other musketeers, all nobles but one and led by Roudon personally. This was a surprise and he was pretty sure the sign of an upcoming disaster.

After they were dismissed, Athos walked over to join the other members of his mission and as soon as he did, Roudon instructed him and Stephen, the only other common soldier on the mission, personally to oversee the saddling of the horses as well as securing extra munitions. The Lieutenant gave Athos a haughty look as if daring him to object, but Athos merely nodded an acknowledgement before heading off to the supply area.

"Be sure the horses are ready when we come back from breaking our fast," Roudon called after the retreating men. Once again, Athos made no argument, simply heading about his assigned duties. Missing breakfast was no hardship compared to some he had endured. Besides, there was still the stash of apples in the barn, though he was getting a little tired of a diet of apples and the snorts of disgust from Roger, who felt he wasn't getting his fair share.

By the time Roudon and the rest of the musketeers assigned to this mission emerged from the dining hall, the horses were tied up outside, fully ready to go with packs of extra ammunition hanging from the saddles. Roudon indicated for the men to mount. As the group moved out, Athos and Stephen fell into line, side by side, at the back of the column.

"I've been hearing things," Stephen quietly stated as they rode along. He kept his voice pitched low so the conversation stayed between them. "That people like us aren't wanted in the regiment anymore."

Athos quirked an eyebrow at him, but didn't say anything. Interesting, he thought, that others were confirming what he thought he was seeing and willing to speak about it, at least to some.

"Henri was a friend of mine, before he left. He liked being a musketeer, up until…," Stephen's trailed off.

Stephen fugitively glanced around then lowered his voice even more when he began to speak once more. "Henri told me on his last mission that when they got into a sword fight with the mercenaries trying to steal the King's gold, the rest of the musketeers wouldn't come to his aid, even though he was fighting multiple men and they had already subdued their opponents. They stood there, those nobility, and simply watched Henri fight for his life. Did nothing. Henri said it was if they hoped he would be killed," Stephen concluded as he scanned about once more. "When he got back to the garrison, injured, but alive, he quit. Said it wasn't worth his life being thrown away as if he didn't matter. He said if he had to die for his King and his country he would have. But not because some pompous ass like Roudon and his cronies refused to believe he was worthy to be a musketeer. Sure, Henri wasn't born into some rich family, but he was a good soldier and a good man. Better than those privileged ass…"

Suddenly, Roudon sharply drew his horse around and rode back to Athos and Stephen. Stephen's face blanched white as their Lieutenant approached. "He couldn't have heard," he mumbled under his breath.

Roudon scowled furiously at the two musketeers. "Stop dragging your heels you good for nothing mongrels. If your riding skills are so poor you can't keep up, dismiss yourselves now. You are making a mockery out the righteous men that do belong in the musketeers."

Athos was a little surprised to hear Roudon speaking so candidly, but then again who was here to object? Everyone on the team, other than he and Stephen, were loyal to a fault to Roudon.

"Consider yourself on notice," Roudon warned, looking specifically at Athos, "again. I am not blinded like Captain Treville. I will see that this regiment brought back to glory."

Athos, his back straight as a rod, kept his eyes facing forward, looking straight between Roger's pointed black ears. If Roudon hoped to get a rise out of him, the Lieutenant was going to sorely disappointed. Athos would not give Roudon the satisfaction of a reaction. However, he was concerned at Roudon's rhetoric, which was exponentially escalating and might soon lead the prejudiced leader to take even bolder actions against those he felt didn't belong in the musketeers.

The group rode through the city heading for a building in the northern-most quadrant of Paris which, according to sources, was said to be housing a group of mercenaries, hired to bomb an important, yet unnamed target. Though the information was scanty, Roudon had felt it was enough to act on. When they arrived at their target, Athos saw it was a two-story wooden building, quite remote and set far away from any other structures.

Though he thought it was unwise for their group to spilt up this soon, when he and Stephen were commanded by Lieutenant Roudon to scout around the back for additional exits, Athos and Stephen dismounted and obeyed. Keeping out of the sight-lines of the windows, as best as possible, he and Stephen made their way to the rear of the structure where they found one door and very little cover. The only thing behind the building was a broken-down wagon sitting cockeyed on three wheels with the fourth being broken. Guns drawn, Athos was considering their next move when he heard a terrible racket out front. It didn't take long to figure out that Roudon and the rest of the troops had stormed the front of the building, which meant only one thing if there truly were mercenaries inside.

"Behind the wagon," Athos yelled to Stephen as the first mercenary burst through the door, saw them and took aim. He heard the whistle of the bullet as it narrowly missed his diving form. Hitting the ground with a shoulder roll, he came up in a crouch and fired back at his assailant, placing a hole dead center in the man's chest.

Stephen was not so lucky as the second man out the door took aim and fired. The projectile tore through Stephen's thigh and the musketeer collapsed with a yelp in the grass. Using his second loaded pistol, Athos took aim at the second gunman, neatly taking him down too. Aramis would be proud of his marksmanship, which was improving under his tutelage.

Another mercenary came out the door, being driven to the back by the large party of musketeers in the front. What wasn't occurring was any reinforcements being sent to hep Athos and Stephen, which Athos was sure was a deliberate act by Roudon.

Athos sprinted across the grass, scooped up Henri's unused gun, spun and shot this third man as well. He grabbed the downed musketeer by the nape of his jacket and dragged him across the ground until they were behind the wagon. Stephen's agonized screams only confirmed what Athos knew, that he was causing the fallen musketeer great pain. But leaving him lying in the open was a certain death sentence. He propped Stephen up against the wagon as best as he could then took a cursory look at his leg which had major damage.

"Take off your belt. Wrap it above the wound on your thigh and pull it tight," Athos instructed as he turned to watch the open back door. So far, no one else had exited, yet. However, he was pretty sure there were more and they were just being cautious after seeing their first three friends gunned down.

Athos had tucked his two spent pistols in his belt and Stephen still had one of his two. Taking his powder pouch and bag of shot from his belt, he dropped them on the ground by Stephen's side. "Can you reload them?" Athos inquired as he piled the empty pistols by the injured man.

Stephen, who by now had the belt secured gave a quick nod. He was already feeling woozy and disorientated from blood loss, but he'd try.

Athos heard battle cries rising through the air and he turned his attention back to watching the door where he saw movement. Damn Roudon. The Lieutenant knew he and Stephen were the only ones back here and yet he kept driving the mercenaries at them without sending any additional musketeers to assist. If Athos wasn't totally convinced before, he was now; Roudon was trying to kill him and Stephen on this mission.

Cursing, Athos drew his sword and main-gauche, prepared to defended himself and Stephen as long as he could. A quick glance showed Stephen had not even managed to reload one pistol yet, so Athos didn't hold out for much hope in that quarter.

Four more men tumbled out the door, thankfully without any firearms, only swords, a small piece of luck in the two trapped musketeers' favor. In his usual bold style, for what did he have to lose, Athos stepped out from behind the wagon, sword in hand.

"Surrender, in the name of the King," he demanded with authority, as if he fully expected them to obey. His demand did get the four man to stop for a moment and look at him. Athos' only saving grace was these men didn't seem to possess any firearms.

"You have to be joking, right?" the lead mercenary said with disbelief as he stared at the lone musketeer. "There are four of us and one of you."

With the slightest hint of an arrogant smirk on his face, Athos replied, "Don't say you weren't warned."

While the swordsman was maintaining a cool exterior, inside he was fighting the sinking feeling he has about to see how hot it really was in hell. It wasn't that he hadn't successfully defeated multiple men before, but not with a partially healed right wrist and palm. Plus, he was still not as fit as he should be, courtesy of his extended stay in the garrison's prison. To say he wasn't at the top of his game was a gross understatement. In passing, he wondered how Stephen was making out loading the guns before realizing he probably shouldn't count on assistance from that quarter.

His four adversaries began advancing on him, swords drawn and at the ready. He hated to do it so early in the fight, but he felt he had no choice so in one swift motion he threw his main-gauche into the heart of the man on the left. His technique, perfected as a young man, was swift and true and the body crumbled to the ground.

The three remaining men halted in their tracks, looking at their downed fourth, then over at the lone musketeer, sword raised, waiting for them.

"I did warn you," Athos chastised them. "It's not too late to bring this to an end. Lay down your weapons and submit to the King's justice."

"You do realize there is three of us still, one of you, and you don't have your little knife no more," the one who seemed to be the spokesman of the group pointed out.

With a tone of puzzlement, as if he wasn't believing what he was hearing, Athos commented, "You can count. I admit, that surprises me."

Unexpectedly, a shot rang out from under the wagon where Stephan was sheltering. The shot was good and another mercenary dropped dead.

"It seems," Athos remarked drolly, "that the odds are increasingly in my favor."

With a growl, the remaining two rushed Athos, the intensity of their attack driving him backwards as he attempted to weave his single sword in a defense against his adversaries two blades. It wasn't a pretty fight and he did get struck by his opponent's blades more than he liked, but in the end, he was victorious. He'd been forced to switch sword hands a number of times, which left him vulnerable for a moment. Athos also used every maneuver, every trick, every piece of knowledge he'd ever learned about fighting to stay alive, including a few underhanded ones that Porthos had taught him.

When his last opponent finally fell to the earth, Athos' sword arm dropped to his side as if it were made of lead and he stood there trying to draw air into his straining lungs. Slowly, because of his injuries, new and old, he hobbled back to the wagon to check on Stephen and was saddened, but not surprised to see that the man had died. Leaning his sweat-soaked head against the worn wood of the wagon, moisture welled up in his green eyes. Stephen, Simeon, Henri… all of the people being persecuted by Roudon deserved better.

He had tried to wait for Captain Treville's return, but he could no longer. Stephen and Simeon, dead. Henri driven off. Who knew who else would be dismissed or dead by the time Treville returned? It was clear Roudon was purging the musketeers of undesirables and, like lemmings, the rest of the nobility were blindly following him.

Ignoring the aches and pains of his body, the bleeding gashes, he bent over and hoisted Stephen's limp body over his shoulder and staggered around the front of the building. When he got there, he let the body slide to the ground as he stood dumbfounded. Not a single musketeer was there. The only horse left was Roger, and only because the loyal animal wouldn't let himself be led or driven off without his rider.

Roudon and the rest of the team, knowing full well there was a battle going on around back had simply ridden away, abandoning him and Stephan to die. For Athos, this was the last straw. Roudon's persecution had to end when he got back to the garrison.

Picking up Stephan once more, he carried him over to Roger and laid him across the saddle. Awkwardly mounting behind his human bundle, Athos urged Roger into a sedate walk. Stephan's legs and arms flopped against the stallion's black hide, but the horse bore it with good grace, as if he knew it was a solemn task. Slowly, the one-man funeral procession wound its way through the streets of Paris towards the garrison and the ultimate show down.


	47. Chapter 47

CHAPTER 47

Already a murmuring was humming through the garrison at the arrival of a solemn-faced Athos with a dead body lying across his horse's back. People stopped what they were doing to watch, then move towards the musketeer and the black stallion when they came to a halt almost dead center of the courtyard. The word of the sight ran through the dining hall and the musketeers eating there left their meals behind to step out into the courtyard to see what was transpiring.

As Athos slid off his horse onto the ground, a voice in the crowd called out, "Who is it?" The position of the body, face down, made it hard to identify the victim.

Bitterly, Athos responded, "l'm surprised your first question isn't what is his lineage."

Aramis and Porthos, who had been in the armory, walked over to where Athos, Roger and the corpse were located. With care, Porthos reached up, gently removed the body and carried it over to a nearby table where he laid it face heavenward on the scarred wooden top.

"Stephen," echoed through the crowd as they got a glimpse of the dead musketeer's face.

"Are you going to turn your backs on him, your fellow musketeer, and walk away now that you know who it is? For that is what happened earlier today. Stephen trusted the men of this regiment and they abandon him. Left him to die." Athos' stinging accusation caused a shuffling among the watching crowd.

Roudon's strident voice rang angrily through the air. "What's going on here?"

With eyes of cold steel, Athos turned to face the Lieutenant who had halted on the landing on the staircase. "This is what happened after you ran off like a coward. Is it the result you hoped for or were you expecting two dead bodies?"

The murmur in the crowd swelled then ebbed like waves assaulting a beach.

"Watch your words or you'll find yourself brought up on charges, again," Roudon admonished Athos. "And the rest of you, disperse."

No one moved other than Athos who took a few steps closer to Roudon. "You don't want confess your crime to all? Fine. Then do it to Captain Treville."

A sardonic smile spread across the Lieutenant's face. "You have just confirmed you are delusional. First you ride in here sprouting nonsense and now you are seeing imaginary people."

Athos' final steps brought him to the bottom of the staircase where he stood, confidently, hand on the hilt of his blade. "Captain Treville will be back. Until that time, you can wait in prison for his judgement. Or do you deny killing Stephen and Simeon. Driving out Henri. Assigning those you consider beneath you and your kind to the most dangerous missions with no support.

As Athos made his accusations, Aramis and Porthos exchanged a quick glance before moving to stand slightly behind their friend. Athos was starting a war with Roudon and they were pretty sure he wasn't going to back down.

"I'll not stand here and listen to your slander. Pierre, Eduard, arrest this lunatic," Roudon ordered before turning and beginning to climb the stairs.

The sound of steel being drawn set the crowd humming again as Athos drew his deadly blade. "I'll not stand down. You have killed your last musketeer. It's time for you to answer for your crimes."

Stopping and turning, Roudon glared down at Athos over the side of the staircase.

"Your twisted campaign to drive those that don't match your ideals out of the regiment ends here and now," Athos declared, pointing the tip of his sword up the stairs. "Though perhaps you should check your own family tree."

That got Roudon's attention and he reversed his direction, moving back to the landing. Athos momentarily let his sword drop to his side as he watched Roudon approach. "What exactly are you inferring?" the Lieutenant demanded as he rested his own hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I'm saying don't be so quick to judge others by the blood that flows through their veins lest you be judged the same."

Roudon slowly descended the last set of stairs, stopping when he was standing two steps above Athos to maintain the psychological high-ground. "Are you questioning my heritage?" he hissed with indignation. "How dare someone like you question their betters. I ought to kill you for that insult alone," he said in a low voice. Raising his voice, he said, "My family has been nobility for generations, always a favorite of the Kings of France."

In that cool voice he had perfected so well, Athos answered, "I'm not questioning your family's bloodline." And while he didn't say it, the words 'only yours' were heard as clear as day. "Dalliances with maids are not unheard of amongst the nobility."

A red flush rose so quickly on Roudon's face that Aramis, who was close enough to hear the exchange, wondered if Athos was actually correct.

"I believe," Athos drawled, "that you are an only son, born late in the lives of your parents. Strange you never had any other siblings. Usually, nobility like to ensure their bloodline doesn't die out, with an heir and a spare as the saying goes." It's probably the main reason he himself was still alive, Athos thought. His father had always clearly favored Thomas, but he didn't dare discount his first borne for fear of something happening to Thomas and the de la Fère bloodline coming to an end.

In one swift move, Roudon drew his blade and leapt from the stairs at Athos, who quickly raised his own sword to parry the strike. The circle of spectators drew back as the two men entered into their duel. The rest of the musketeers seemed to understand and respect the unspoken wishes of the fighters that no one intervene.

Roudon hadn't been boasting when he claimed he was good with a sword. He was definitely holding his own with Athos, even pushing the swordsman back at times. It also helped that Athos had spent the day fighting for his and Stephen's lives and was tired, which made his moves a little sluggish and less precise. Add in Athos' injuries and Roudon came close to having the upper hand. Both men were scoring shallow hits on each other, which caused the crowd to react, though strangely as many seemed to be backing Athos as Roudon.

"He's not trying to hurt him too bad," Porthos claimed as he watched Athos fight.

Aramis, watching with a medical eye, thought weariness and injury were affecting Athos' style and he cocked an eyebrow at Porthos. "Really? Not tiredness or injury?"

Emphatically, Porthos shook his head. "Trust me. He's holding back."

In a way, that made Aramis feel better. It made it seem as if Athos had some ultimate plan behind his actions, that he was not just acting on pure emotion.

A groan escaped the crowd as Athos' sword tip grazed Roudon's arm causing him to swear.

"See. That could have been a lot worse. He's holding back," Porthos repeated, glancing over at Aramis.

Steel on steel rang through the courtyard again, followed by an excited murmur as Roudon scored a hit.

The fight continued on with the intensity neither waxing or waning, both men totally absorbed in the duel. In fact, the whole garrison was so focused on the fight that no one noticed the lone rider entering the gate.

"What's going on?" a familiar voice rang across the courtyard. Treville had ridden ahead of the rest of the troops who were still at the Palace aiding the King.

In future years, a more mature, experienced Athos wouldn't have let anything break his concentration during a sword fight. He would have absorbed the information and then decided if it had to be acted upon, while staying fully engaged in his fight. But this was Athos, the newly-minted musketeer, and when he heard the authoritative voice of Captain Treville, he momentarily lost focus.

Roudon, on the other hand, did not and he used Athos' lapse in concentration to launch a vicious attack. Had he been able to carry it through to fruition, it would have been probably ended the duel as well as Athos' life. But part of Athos' talent was innate, instinctual, which made him a notch above the rest with a sword. And that is what made his blade, seemingly of its own accord fend off Roudon's blade, which was aimed for his heart. Athos' blade deflected the strike away and down. However, the swordsman wasn't able to escape the blow completely, and the tip of Roudon's sword dug deep, leaving a trail of red down Athos' left pant leg.

There is a pivotal moment in every fight and that was it. Athos stopped holding back and began an all-out assault on Roudon. Every thrust was designed to maim as well as humiliate the Lieutenant. Athos drove the man to his knees more than once, then backed off, contemptuously letting the man rise, only to knock him off his feet again a few seconds later. Roudon didn't handle these degrading tactics well and as his anger grew, his swordsmanship declined, making it even easier for Athos to make him look the fool.

After a cunning and vicious attack that had Roudon tripping backwards over a small obstruction, landing hard on his rump on the ground and losing possession of his sword, Athos closed in on the man and pressed the tip of his rapier into the flesh directly over Roudon's rapidly beating heart.

Athos' own heart was pumping furiously too, and his senses of the outside world were dulled by the swishing sound in his ears. He stood there, in the middle of a circle of musketeers, blade ready to skewer his nemesis. And yet it was also as if he were totally alone, lost in his own hatred of the man.

Treville rushed up to the duo, commanding Athos to lower his weapon, but the command was not getting through to the musketeer who was now solely focused on his prey. Aramis and Porthos also approached their friend, debating what to do. As much as they wanted Roudon punished, dead even, this wasn't the way.

"Athos! Stand down. That is an order!" Treville barked once more.

It wasn't that Athos didn't hear, part of his brain was processing what Treville said, but his heart was trying to override his brain. Kill him, his heart demanded. This is not the way, his brain commanded.

Trying a new tactic, Treville said softly, "I don't know what has brought this to be, but I promise, Athos, justice will be served. But not like this. This is wrong."

"How do you know?" Athos growled. "Maybe this is exactly what needs to be done."

"Remember what I told you. After the battle? It is not our duty to decide the fate of a person. We do what we are ordered. Sometimes, you are going to be tempted to take justice into your own hands. Be careful of that path for it is rarely the right one. And if you do go down that trail, be prepared for the consequences."

Treville thought he saw the tip of Athos' sword ease back a little, so he pushed on.

"Perhaps Roudon does deserve to die..."

Roudon's eyes grew large as he lay there pinned to the ground, a hair's breath away from being sent to meet his maker.

"...but not by you. If this man deserves to die, it will be by the King's justice and command," Treville stated firmly.

"Athos, please," Aramis asked, daring to place his hand lightly on Athos' left shoulder.

But it was Porthos in the end who probably tipped the scales. The large man merely reached out his hand and wiggled his fingers to indicate to Athos to hand over his sword. "It is me he has wronged the most and maybe I do want him dead. But not like this. Not at the risk of you being imprisoned or worse. You, and our friendship, are worth more than this ass." That did reach Athos and, slowly, he handed his sword to Porthos, who accepted it.

The three Inseparables took a few steps away from the man on the ground then silently stood watching as a few of Roudon's staunch supporters came forward and helped the man to his feet. Without warning, the Lieutenant launched himself at Athos, knocking him to the ground then kneeing him in his injured thigh. The fight didn't amount to anything because Treville, Aramis, Porthos and two other nearby musketeers quickly dragged the men apart.

"Enough! Roudon, Athos, go get your wounds attended to and report to my office in an hour," Captain Treville commanded. "The rest of you disperse."

The Captain could have had Athos and Roudon report immediately, but he needed a break of relative peace to try to come up with a solution to this problem. If was obvious one if not both of them needed to leave the musketeers, but who, how and why he still had to figure out,

Aramis, who had assisted Athos to his feet, noted the musketeer could bear little weight on his right leg. He gave a discreet nod to Porthos who lent Athos a shoulder to use as a temporary crutch to help him limp back to Aramis' room where the marksman had medical supplies stored. Roudon was taken to the official infirmary to have his wounds looked at by the company doctor.

"What do ya think the Captain's gonna do?" Porthos wondered aloud as they limped through the dispersing crowd.

"The way I see it, Roudon has to go. There is no other solution," Aramis offered with the outmost confidence he was right.

"Yeah, but does Captain Treville see it that way?"

Looking worried, Aramis watched as the door that led to Treville's office firmly shut. "That, my friend is the King's ransom's question. But if it isn't Athos who stays, then the regiment will lose me too for I'll not stay with Roudon."

"Nor I," Porthos swore too. "All for one."

"And one for all," Aramis finished.

Athos, whose head had been bowed as he put his full concentration into moving across the courtyard, raised it now to say, "Or I will take the decision out of the Captain's court and simply leave of my own accord."


	48. Chapter 48

CHAPTER 48

The Captain tossed his hat on the bed as he passed by on the way to his desk. With a well-earned groan, he sank onto the hard, wooden chair behind his desk as his eyes swept across the disarray that was its surface. He did note on one side was a neat stack of opened correspondence that apparently Roudon had been staying on top of in his absence. On the upper left corner was a very small pile that was unread, probably yesterday's or today's delivery.

On top of the pile was a message with a seal he recognized and he reached forward to pick it up and open it. He read it once, twice, checked the seal in case his eyes were playing tricks on him, then read it a third and final time before folding it back up. 'God does love me', he thought to himself as he laid the letter back on the messy surface of his desk.

-TMTMTMTM-

The entire time while Aramis was doctoring Athos' wound, he and Porthos argued, begged, demanded, pleaded and cajoled their brother not to think of leaving. Whether any of their arguments registered at all with the swordsman was impossible to say. For other than a few grunts and winces Athos simply couldn't stifle, the musketeer remained stoic and stone-faced.

-TMTMTMTM-

Unlike the stoic Athos, Roudon moaned and carried on while the doctor examined him, acting as if death were standing at the door with his sickle to take him away. The medic cleaned the many shallow wounds finding only one that required needlework. All in all, it confirmed what the doctor had thought as he had watched the duel, that Athos was the better of the two swordsmen. The medic, who had served the Army for years, knew a thing or two about swordsmanship and wounds and what he saw on Roudon told him that Athos had been very circumspect with his sword.

When he was patched up, Roudon immediately left the infirmary to head to the Captain's office, even though it was earlier than the stipulated time. Roudon was committed to speaking his piece to the Captain first. However, his scheme was thwarted when he knocked on Treville's door and was told to wait outside until Athos arrived. Captain Treville wasn't stupid and he kept the man cooling his heels on the porch.

Roudon looked over the railing, highly annoyed at being kept waiting, even if it was by a superior officer. Glancing about the courtyard below, he saw no sign of Athos and he beat his fist against the wooden railing in frustration. He began to wonder, as he waited, if there was some way not only to get all the low-lives kicked out of the musketeers, but also the Captain himself. After all, Treville was the one who showed extremely poor judgement in letting men like Athos, Aramis, Porthos and the other common soldiers into the regiment in the first place. The Lieutenant's family was not without some influence with his Majesty, or at least that is what Roudon chose to believe. Maybe he and his father could petition the King to have Captain Treville removed and he, Roudon, made the head of his Majesty's Musketeers. Surely during his reign, albeit brief, while Captain Treville was gone, he proved he was more than up for the task.

It was this Roudon was contemplating when he saw the trio that was his nemesis coming across the courtyard. A feeling of pure loathing shook his frame as he looked down at Athos. Aramis and Porthos were bad enough, but Athos, the commoner impersonating a noble made Roudon want to pull out his pistol and shoot the man dead on the spot. Anywhere else, a commoner pretending to be nobility was punishable by law. Why not here?

-TMTMTMTM-

Aramis wasn't totally happy with the state of Athos' wounds, but at the allotted time, the swordsman rose, pushed Aramis' ministrations aside, pulled back on the clothing the medic had made him take off, buckled on his weapons belt and left in silence. Aramis followed after him, complaining he wasn't done yet, but he got no reaction from the departing musketeer. Porthos silently trailed along behind the duo until Athos got to the stairs that led to the Captain's office, then he deliberately upped his pace to get in front of Athos and make him stop.

"Don't be doing anything stupid and don't let your strange sense of honor, that puts everyone else in front of your own well-being, take over. You are not the bad guy here. The Captain knows that so don't you go putting him in a corner where he has no recourse but to kick you out of the musketeers." Reaching out, Porthos laid a hand on Athos' shoulder and captured those stubborn green eyes with his own equally stubborn brown ones. "Roudon is an asshole. The musketeers need men like you, not him. Don't you become the scapegoat."

With that, Porthos dropped his hand and took a step backwards. Athos scanned Porthos' face then Aramis', his own expression an odd mix of sadness and surprise.

"No one has ever had such faith in me," he said quietly as he turned and limped up the staircase towards where Roudon stood on the porch, waiting.

Silently, Aramis and Porthos watched their third disappear.

"Do you think…" Porthos started to ask but Aramis waved at him to be quiet.

"It's in the Captain's hands now."

With that, the marksman turned and headed towards what had become known as 'their' table in the courtyard. Perching on the table top, with Porthos next to him, Aramis stared at the Captain's porch, trying his best to curb his impatience and keep the depression and nausea that threaten to overcome him at bay.

-TMTMTMTM-

When Athos reached the top of the stairs, Roudon turned away and headed for the Captain's door. A knock and a reply later, and he entered the room. When he opened his mouth to speak, Captain Treville held up his hand to silence him. Athos limped into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him before he moved to stand a few feet from the other two. Athos' face was a blank slate giving no indication of his feelings. Roudon's facade on the other hand was an open book; he had no intention of losing this fight.

Captain Treville didn't say a word, but picked up the document he'd been reading from his desk and moved towards Roudon. "It is with my deepest sympathy that I must inform you of your father's death."

Roudon's mouth, which was already partially open ready to make his first rebuttal, stuttered a few nonsensical syllables as he tried to process the unexpected news.

"This missive just arrived. It says your father was thrown from his horse at a hunt and died later that night from his injuries. There was no time to get a rider to you before his demise. You are being recalled immediately to the estate to take over your rightful place as the Comte. You are to pack your things, make a stop at the palace to see the King and then head back to the estate to inter your father."

Roudon still stood there as if struck by lightning. "Dead," he finally managed to eke out. This was something he had not expected. When he had left to serve as a musketeer, his father had been in excellent health, fit as a fiddle. Roudon had not expected to be the Comte for many years.

"Again, I am sorry for your loss. You have loyally served your time in protecting your King and Country in the musketeers, but now you must leave and serve his Majesty as one of his trusted nobles."

To his credit, Treville maintained the dignity required by the situation, even though it felt forced. After all, a man had died. However, Treville did shudder when he stopped to think of the havoc Roudon could cause as a trusted advisor to the King.

Slowly, wrapping his head around the Captain's words, Roudon theatrically bowed his head. "My father was a good man and a good father. This tragedy has cut him down in his prime. As much as I have devoted myself to protecting his Majesty as a musketeer, it is now my duty, as a son of the nobility, to take my father's place and help run this country."

Treville wasn't so sure that the King, his council and especially Cardinal Richelieu would exactly feel the same way, but he kept his own counsel to himself. Athos, already a rightful heir thought to himself that Roudon was in for a surprise at how little power the King truly granted the nobility.

Raising his head and brushing what was surely an imaginary tear aside, Roudon continued. "Captain, I hand in my resignation as of this moment. I must see my King and then be swiftly away to my poor mother's side who has been left all alone in this world."

Giving Athos a hard glare, he added, "As much as I feel it is my duty to stay here and make sure he," Roudon pointed a finger at Athos, "is punished in the matter befitting his crime, alas, duty to my King and family outweighs all." Turning back to face Treville he said, "I trust you Captain to make sure this man is dealt with in the appropriate manner."

With a nod to himself, Roudon spun around and headed for the door. "I will pack what I need for the journey and send for the rest later. Any papers you need me to sign send along with the rest of my personal belongings." Opening the door, he turned one last time to face Captain Treville and Athos. "Be sure I will let the King know what is going on here with certain musketeers. I consider it my duty as his Majesty's newest and well-trusted Comte." With that, he turned and left the Captain's office.

With a sad shake of his heard, Treville moved towards the cabinet where he kept his liquor. Pulling out a bottle and two glasses, he mused, "What a strange web fate weaves." Pouring a measure in each glass, he handed one to Athos, then gestured for him to sit.

"Sit, before you fall over, Athos. You have been sorely abused today. It's hard to believe Rodon did that much damage. You are the better swordsman by far."

"In a fair fight, yes," Athos conceded after taking a sip of the amber liquid and feeling it burn down his throat. "But I spent the whole morning fighting to keep Stephen and myself alive after Roudon abandon us to the mercenaries." Tossing back the rest of the brandy in one swallow, Athos dropped the glass on the nearby table and bowed his head, his voice was rough with emotion. "I was not successful and Stephen is dead. Yet the irony of our Lord has me surviving. What does He want from me!"

Treville knew enough about Athos' life and could surmise many of the pieces he might be missing. He was also a fairly astute judge of the human psyche, something that had been very useful in his military career and diplomatic dealings with royalty over the years. He had to admit Athos was a tough nut to crack, but he wasn't totally clueless on how best to handle the man, so he answered Athos' question.

"He wants you to remember that there are people in this world who respect and need you, as much as you need them. Two of them are out there in that courtyard right now. I am sure they already have plans to make sure no matter what, you three stay together, even if it means they leave the musketeers."

Athos raised his head and gave his Captain a sharp look. "Surely they would not be so stupid as to give up their own careers for me."

Treville couldn't help laughing at Athos' comment, though he felt a little bad at doing so. "Surely you are not that stupid. Would you not do everything in your power to help them? Even risk your own life for theirs?"

The look Athos gave him confirmed it all.

"And trust me, they would do the same for you. That motto, 'All for one and one for all', I have never heard them use it before you joined the ranks. I hate to admit it because you all are a pain in my ass, but I have never seen three men better suited to be a team. Your skills complement each other, your temperaments…" he paused a moment, "mostly keep you all balanced and levelheaded. And your loyalty, to each other, to this regiment and to your King and Country, is unmatched."

Treville could see Athos was absorbing what he was saying, wanting to believe in his words. But the Captain could also sense as much as the swordsman wanted to trust, a darkness from within him was holding him back.

"So, now we have to figure out how to move forward."

"I will re…" Athos started to say before Treville cut him off.

"The death of Roudon's father and his recall to the estate came at a very fortuitous moment." Treville ran a hand through his short-cropped hair. "My gut tells me, however, this is not the last we will hear from the man. I fear he will use his new position to cause trouble for the musketeers and especially you, Athos. You have made a dangerous enemy." Sighing, he added, "But we will cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Roudon shouldn't even be the heir to that estate," Athos said in a slow and deliberate tone.

Captain Treville looked at him curiously. "Are you saying that he is not the Comte's son? How would you know something like that?"

Giving one of those inscrutable shrugs he had so perfected, Athos replied obscurely, "They are more than just wallpaper."

Treville noted that Athos had not answered his question, but given what he knew of the man, it was probably the closest thing he was going to get to an answer.

"Roudon was the leader of the…nobility-only movement. With him gone and some care, I think the others will learn to accept what you have created, Captain. An all-inclusive regiment." The hint of a smile twitched at the corner of Athos' mouth. "It is a good concept even though I fear some of us have made it somewhat more…difficult… for you to employ at times."

The Captain rose from his chair, walked over to where he'd left the brandy decanter and brought it back to refill their glasses. After placing the bottle back in the cabinet, he said, "I don't suppose you are willing to tell the world of your true heritage?"

Walking back to his chair, the Captain already knew the answer he'd receive by the stiffening that occurred in Athos' frame. Settling back into his own chair with his drink in hand, he watched as Athos' struggled to overcome the intense emotions that were coursing through his body.

In a tight voice, Athos eked out, "That ship has sailed."

"Ships have been known to turn about."

"Then think of the ship as sunk. In a deep, dark, crevice in the ocean, never to rise again. The Comte de la Fère is no more," Athos said with finality as he took a drink from the newly refilled glass as if to seal his statement.

Captain Treville, older and wiser, had a feeling that someday that statement would prove to be false, but for now he kept his own counsel on the matter. Instead, he made a different announcement. "Athos, I am appointing you as my new Lieutenant to fill the position recently vacated by Roudon," Treville watched as the declaration sank in to the man sitting across from him and when it did, Athos nearly dropped the glass of brandy in his hand.

"You are joking. That is the stupidest damn idea I have ever heard," the swordsman blurted out.

"As my Lieutenant, I will allow you some leeway to express your own thoughts on matters. However, I do expect if you have a dissenting opinion, it will be presented in, shall we say a more diplomatic manner," Treville said drily, suppressing the grin that threaten to overtake his face.

"No disrespect intended, Captain," Athos responded sincerely. "But really, that is a terrible idea. No one will follow me."

"Athos, half of the musketeers already do. And, they respect you," Treville countered the swordsman.

Slowly shaking his head, Athos took another mouthful of brandy. "They may respect my ability with a sword. But as for the drunk that shows up for muster, I hardly think so."

"The rules remain the same. You are not to be drunk when you are on duty. I will court martial you and throw you back into the street where I found you if I ever feel your drinking has endangered the life of my…our men."

Athos lowered his eyes and nodded, fully agreeing with the Captain's message. He would never allow his personal demons to cause harm to others. He'd rather die first.

He grew still as his mind pondered. He couldn't accept this position. How many times had he been put down by his father, been looked at as second-best to his brother, been deceived by people like his wife. How could a man such as he be trusted! He wasn't fit to be a Comte and he wasn't fit to lead musketeers.

He was about to open his mouth to say no and tender up his resignation when Treville quietly spoke. "I trust you, son. With the lives of my men and with my own."

Trust. Son. Those two small words hit Athos like a ton of bricks. For once, Athos' face showed his true emotions, that he was overwhelmed by Treville's words. It had been so long, a life-time, since someone had been willing to show the faith, the trust that Captain Treville had just bestowed upon him. Another feeling hit him, one that hadn't been a part of Athos for a very long time…hope.

Still, the dark demons that had been beaten into him for years tried to surge forth and he found himself saying, "Surely Porthos, Aramis, or a dozen other musketeers who have been here longer than I have should be given this position."

"This is not about length of service, but about having the ability to do what needs to be done. And Athos, you have the innate gift to lead people."

That made Athos let forth with a bitter laugh. "I fear Captain, you need to remove your blinders and see who I really am. No, you should offer this to Aramis. Perhaps the regiment isn't quite ready to be led by Porthos yet, which is a shame for he'd do a good job. But Aramis is well-liked and has a good head for soldiering."

"Aramis and Porthos are both good men as are others in the regiment. But I am offering the position to you. You don't need to be the Comte de la Fère to get men to follow you. They will follow Athos the swordsman too."

"Athos, whose father wished he'd been born a second son, or perhaps not at all. Athos, who disappointed his mother by not being a dutiful son. Athos, who couldn't keep safe his baby brother. Athos, whose wife murdered his only brother. Athos, who condemned the love of his life to death. Athos, who can't resist the lure of the bottle," Athos listed his sins bitterly.

"You are only defined by those things if you let them have power over you. Fathers and sons often don't see eye-to-eye. Sons frequently disappoint their mothers. You didn't know when you fell in love with your wife that she was a bad seed. You didn't kill your brother and you did your duty by hanging his murderer. And as for the bottle, you can conquer it, all your demons, if you put your mind, heart and soul into succeeding and…" he paused a second to be sure he caught Athos' eye, "if you open yourself up, just a little, to people, like Aramis, Porthos, and myself. Have a little trust in your fellow man and a little faith in your God."

The room grew quiet as Treville having said his peace, settled deeper in his chair to wait Athos' final decision. It was now up to Athos to be willing to take a step of faith and accept the role he was being offered.

Before slumping back in his chair, Athos took the half-full glass he'd forgotten he was holding and placed it on the nearby table. Exhaustion swept over his body as his mind tried to work through all that had occurred here; what he was being offered. A chance. At a new life. To make a difference in an even bigger way than just being a musketeer. To take responsibility for not just himself but those around him who were in his command. To hold their lives in his hands, keep them safe. It was much being asked of him.

Treville watched the man in front of him struggle, which was extraordinary for Athos usually was adept at keeping the world at bay when it came to his emotions. It made the Captain realized Athos must be very off-kilter, mentally and physically, to allow such glimpse into his soul. Perhaps, a decision made under these conditions would be very unwise. An abuse of trust. Given the swordsman's vulnerability at this moment, Treville had no doubt he could literally force Athos into saying yes. But is that really what he wanted to do to the young man who had had so many people abuse his trust in the past? No, Treville decided and he eased off, a little.

"Athos. I realize you have been through a lot. The battle, the events at the horse farm, your capture, the death of your friend, my absence, Roudon," he listed the events of the recent months. "You are injured, exhausted and I have put forth to you a life-changing proposition." Leaning forward and extruding as much confidence and compassion as he could, Treville went on to say, "It is unfair for me to expect you to give me an answer now. Take some time. Think upon what I have said. Let those walls down a little. You'll see what I am saying is true. You are a leader. Your country and your fellow soldiers need you to step up and do what you were born to do."

"I was born the son of a Comte," Athos said, a twinge of sadness coloring his tone.

"You were born a leader of men. Leading an estate. Leading musketeers. Really, it's not that different. Well, except the creature comforts. You'll lead a harder life as a musketeer than a Comte. But which one will give you satisfaction?"

Athos thought about that a moment before darkly muttering, "I am not sure anything can give me satisfaction."

"Then what will be better for your King and Country. Comte or musketeer? You are still a citizen of France."

Athos picked up the glass on the table, finished the contents then rose as he put it back down. "I shall think upon what you have asked."

"Thank you," Treville said quietly.

After a simple nod, Athos turned and limped from the room.


	49. Chapter 49

CHAPTER 49

The Captain paused on the landing to his stairs and let his eyes sweep the musketeers assembled below for morning muster. He checked once, then twice and a trickle of concern flowed through his body when he did not see Athos amongst the assembled. He stomped down the remaining stairs with a mix of emotions. Had his proposition upset Athos so much that he had taken off?

As he walked towards the musketeers, Aramis stepped out of line to approach him.

"Captain. Athos isn't able to attend muster this morning. Last night, he developed a fever stemming from the infection that has set in in the wound on his thigh," Aramis informed his leader.

With an audible sigh of relief, Treville thanked Aramis and then with a nod, sent him back into line. Walking until he was front and center of his troops, Treville turned and addressed his men.

"As you may have heard, Lieutenant Roudon's father, the Comte du Champ, has died and Roudon has been recalled to his estate. As such, he has resigned his commission in the musketeers to serve his country in a new manner."

The Captain let a wave of muttering run its course before speaking again. "I know that there has been division in this troop that seems to be widening every day. For those of you who have studied history, you'll know that an Army divided cannot stand. Divisions within the ranks of an Army will defeat it quicker than any other enemy. The musketeers have too important a role, a sacred role, to be brought down by internal strife. So, let us clear the air, here and now."

Treville paused as he let his gaze wander across the men of his unit.

"There will always be the haves and have nots in this world. There will always be someone who is richer and someone who is poorer than you. Instead of focusing on differences, being envious of those above you or mocking those less fortunate, why not be content with who and where you are in this moment of time. History has taught us that role reversals can come swiftly and those once at the top can one day find themselves at the bottom. Let's not focus on who our parents were, or what role they played in society. Instead, let's focus on ourselves and the unique gifts each one of us brings to the table. Our own abilities."

Treville glanced around again and found he had an attentive audience.

"Some of us have a more formal education and others have been taught by the experience of life. Combine those two perspectives in a fighting force and you have one that is vastly superior to those who fight by traditional tactics only. The same goes for every skill that every one of you possess that is different than the man standing next to you. Don't judge, but instead use the power of all. You do that and I promise you gentlemen, the Musketeers will be an unstoppable force."

Taking a breath, Treville began to walk between the rows of his musketeers, catching an eye here, patting a shoulder there. "I chose each and every one of you for the unique talents you possess. And I know each of you comes with flaws too, as do I. However, we will work as a unit to strengthen our talents and help each other overcome our flaws. Together. As a team."

"Oi, Athos ain't gonna like that teaming part," Porthos leaned over and whispered to Aramis.

"He does like to be a lone wolf at times," Aramis acknowledged.

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger!" Captain Treville shouted as he moved back to stand front and center of his troops. His statement brought forth a wave of whoops from the musketeers, who clearly were being swayed by his speech.

After the cheers settled down, Treville went on with the business of the day. "Now, with Lieutenant Roudon's departure, I have an opening. I had hoped to announce the today, but…"

A voice rose from the back corner of the crowded, growing stronger as the speaker limped forward to stand face to face with Captain Treville.

"We came into the world like brother and brother; And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another," Athos quoted from Shakespeare though he doubted many would get the reference. A story of twins. A story of Athos and the Comte de la Fére.

Athos turned partially to face his Captain and partially to face the regiment. "You asked me last night to take over the Lieutenant's role. If you and my brothers will have me, I accept."

Treville nodded and held out his hand. He knew this was a tough decision and a huge step for the man in front of him. "Musketeers. I present to you your new Lieutenant. Lieutenant Athos."

Once again there was a murmuring through the crowd, some being in favor of their new Lieutenant and some skeptical. But that was OK with Treville. No leader is ever universally loved, the position often requires tough decisions that simply will not make everyone happy. But overall, the majority of the musketeers seemed to be approaching the idea open-mindedly.

Athos fully turned to face the regiment. "I take this position with some hesitancy being newer to this life than most of you. But I promise I will listen, learn and treat you all with the respect you deserve."

With that, Athos took his place amongst the men to wait for the assignments of the day to be handed out by Captain Treville. By the time the Captain was done, Athos was at the end of his physical limits but his pride kept him standing until he could collapse on 'their' table in the courtyard. Treville, wisely, put him on the injured list.

Head cradled in his folded arms on the table, Athos was still for so long that Aramis felt the overwhelming need to slip two fingers onto the pulse point on the swordsman's neck, which was not taken warmly.

"If you hope to use those fingers to eat dinner tonight, I expect you to remove them immediately from my person," Athos growled as the questing fingers rose from his neck to brush his forehead next.

"I don't even know how you made it from your room to here," Aramis exclaimed as he removed his hand and sat down next to Athos.

"Neither do I," Athos mumbled.

"You failed to mention," Aramis continued conversationally, "that Treville asked you to be his Lieutenant last night." He poured a glass of water for Athos and nudged it in his direction. "Sometimes it can be useful to be able to discuss a decision like that with your friends."

"Are you saying I shouldn't have accepted the position?" Athos queried as he wearily raised his head to look at his friends. And as hard as he tried, he couldn't keep a little hurt from creeping into his exhausted voice.

"Of course not," Aramis declared vehemently. "You're the perfect man for the job."

Porthos grinned at Athos and Aramis. "What he's saying is as your brothers, we should hear about stuff like that first. Before the rest of the rabble."

"And contrary to your belief, we can offer sound advice from time to time," Aramis concluded with a smile.

"I'll keep that…in mind," Athos promised as he dropped his head once more. After a few minutes of silence, he asked, "Do you think they will accept me?"

"Absolutely," Porthos replied without hesitancy. "You are perfect for this job, Athos, No one is more deserving. Not me. Not Aramis. No one."

"But you have been musketeers, soldiers, longer than I. Surely you must feel you'd be better for this Lieutenancy," Athos declared in an earnest voice.

"Let's be blunt. They ain't gonna follow me no matter how many pretty speeches Treville makes. When they see me, they see a slave," Porthos said frankly.

"That will change."

"Someday, Athos, I hope you're right."

"And as for me, I feel that a position such as a Lieutenant would require too much of my time that could be devoted to my other passions," Aramis stated as he picked some lint from the sleeve of his jacket before patting his luxurious locks.

"Chasing women," Porthos grumbled. "And being chased by unhappy husbands and fathers."

"I was thinking more of my study of the Good Book and my devotions to God and the church."

Porthos stared, and even Athos raised his head to give their friend a look of disbelief.

"Well, I suppose there are other activities too, that might be curtailed."

"Yeah, the Captain don't want his Lieutenant running though the street of Paris half-dressed being chased by the butcher's wife."

"I haven't slept with the butcher's wife." After a second, Aramis tacked on, "Is she very pretty?"

Porthos ignored him and asked Athos, "Are you sure about taking this position and having to deal with the likes of him?"

Wearily, Athos sighed, "Someone has to keep him in line I suppose. Help maintain a certain level of dignity in the regiment. Speaking of dignity, are there many people around?"

Porthos and Aramis scanned the courtyard finding it deserted.

"No."

Athos nodded. "Good. As my first official order I need you to discreetly help me back to my room. I can't walk that far without…assistance."

"Sure," Aramis said rising from the table. "Porthos, sling him over your shoulder."

"What part of the word discreet don't you understand?" Athos exclaimed.

"You asked the man who runs through Paris in his braies, or worse, to be discreet. Whaddya expect?" Porthos asked Athos with a grin. "Here, let me sling my arm under your shoulder."

Porthos walked over, helped Athos to his feet, slung his arm under the shorter man's shoulder and then took a step away from the table. His friend was in worse shape than he let on and Porthos found him supporting all of Athos weight which made him sag.

"I have to tell you, Athos, this would be easier if you let me put you over my…"

"No."

"How about if I get on the other side and…" Aramis began.

"No."

Aramis glanced over at Porthos and shrugged. "He's all yours. Good luck."

In the slowest and what had to be the most painful manner possible, Athos made it across the courtyard and at least in his mind, his dignity was intact. Treville, who had been silently watching unobserved from his porch wasn't so sure. He hoped his newly-minted Lieutenant would eventually learn it was no shame to accept a little help from one's friends.

"Time will tell," he said to the air as he walked back into his office.


	50. Chapter 50

CHAPTER 50

Athos' wounds kept him incapacitated for a few days so Aramis and Porthos took turns keeping watch over him. It was an interesting and tough assignment, but one they did with love and without regret. It wasn't the first and it wouldn't be the last time they were there for each other.

The Captain went about tying up some loose ends about the garrison. He sent a detail to retrieve what was left of Simeon's remains. When the body fragments were returned to the garrison, he conducted a funeral, with full honors, for Simeon and Stephen, burying both men in the cemetery beside their fallen musketeer brethren. He made sure that all those who supported Roudon's views were off duty and attended the ceremony.

After eulogizing the two men, Treville raised his eyes and swept them across the rank and file of musketeers standing amongst the crosses. "Our Lord and Savior sacrificed his life for mankind. His teachings command that the lowest amongst us is still fit for a place in Heaven. Jesus Christ accepted all for who they were, rich, poor, priest or prostitute. Let us take a page from the Bible and do the same. It is time to put aside our differences and become as one."

There was some shuffling of feet in the grass, but overall Treville felt he had the attention of all.

"We would not have to be here today, burying these two men, musketeers, our brethren, if we had fought as a team. But sadly, and disgracefully, we did not and here we stand."

Aramis softly sighed for the two dead musketeers.

"I know there are those amongst us today that played a hand in what happened, maybe of your own accord or maybe you were following another misguided soul. I could, and probably should, punish those of you who took part in the events that ultimately led to these deaths."

Treville stopped and scanned he crowd once more, watching the expressions on his men's faces. Some looked hopeful that justice would finally be done, while others seemed worried and fearful at the prospect.

"I am, however, going to take no further action at this time, because if I did, I would have to punish myself too, for I, as your leader, did nothing to stop this from occurring. My inaction allowed the conditions to develop that led to these men's deaths."

A murmuring ran through the crowd and Treville paused until it died off.

"But let me make myself perfectly clear here today. I expect each and every one of you to treat each other as equals and with respect. And, if you do not, I will be swift and harsh in correcting the situation. Do I make myself clear?"

He got agreement, but it was nowhere near strong enough.

"I can't hear you. Have I made myself clear!" he shouted.

This time he got a strong affirmative from the crowd.

"Remember this day, always, gentlemen, for we shall not stand here again under these circumstances, so help me God."

"So help me God," the musketeers echoed back.

"Off to your assignments. Aramis, Porthos, a word please," Treville commanded as the crowd dispersed.

The two musketeers moved through the crowd to where their Captain stood.

"Athos has collapsed in the far corner, behind that stand of trees. Would you be so kind as to help your charge back to his sick bed and chain him there until he is fit for duty," the Captain requested in a martyred tone. "You three will be the death of me," he grumbled under his breath as he turned to walk away.

"Did you know he was there?" Porthos asked Aramis as he turned to look where Treville had indicated.

"Of course not. Do you think I would have sanctioned this activity? Or at least if he had said something, I would have found a way that didn't end with him fainting in the dirt," Aramis grumpily answered as they began to walk towards the trees.

"How do you know he has fainted? I can't see him."

"Exactly, if he was standing, you'd see him. He'd be slinking away so he didn't get caught. But he has been caught and he shall now feel my wrath for it."

"You can't blame him for wanting to be here, Aramis."

"And I don't," the medic said as they entered the tree stand and saw Athos sprawled on the ground. "But as I said, there was a better way this could have gone down with Athos asking for assistance, instead of doing it alone."

Porthos bent down and scooped the musketeer off the ground. "So, what are you going to do? Tie him to the bed?"

"Don't tempt me," Aramis chuckled evilly as they headed back to the barracks. "But I shall make sure all the potions I give him are as vile tasting as I can make them."

"You won't have to try too hard to achieve that," Porthos mumbled under his breath.

-TMTMTMTM-

Two days later, Athos was propped up in bed grimacing as he attempted to swallow the cup of medicine handed to him by Aramis.

"This is vile," Athos proclaimed.

"Well, it's medicine. It's supposed to taste bad, to remind us not to do stupid things that make us ill," Aramis said breezily as he pushed the cup in Athos' hand back towards his lips.

The staring contest started.

"You do know that Captain Treville gave me complete authority to say when you are ready to go back to duty. If you ever want that to happen, you'd better cooperate and drink."

"As your Lieutenant, I can order you."

"On many things, yes. But not this. And, by the way, I am not all that good at following orders on my best days," Aramis informed him.

"As if I don't already know that," Athos muttered. Raising the cup to his lips he took a sip and immediately lowered it again. "Aramis," he whined. "This is really awful. Could we at least pour it in a glass of wine?" he begged. "Please?"

"Alcohol and medicine don't mix."

"Since when?"

"Since now," Aramis said firmly. "Now drink."

Porthos, who was sitting at the table nearby offered up advice. "Drink it all at once and hold your nose. It helps."

Even though he rolled his eyes at the suggestion, Athos tried it and it did help get the nasty potion down. When he handed the empty cup back to a smiling Aramis, the marksman reached into his pocket and withdrew a small wrapped object about the size of a large marble.

"Peppermint. It will take the taste out of your mouth," he said as he unwrapped the candy and gave it to Athos, who eagerly popped it into his mouth.

"Hey, do I get one? Porthos whined.

"Only if you want to drink a cup of my restorative potion," Aramis answered.

Never mind," Porthos grumbled before turning his attention back on Athos, who was happily sucking on his candy. "You know what I don't get? Why didn't Captain Treville take harsh measures for what they did to you, and Stephen and Simeon? I think they got off too lightly."

Athos slowly finished sucking on his treat before answering. "Did you expect Treville to drum them out of the musketeers?"

"Yes!" Porthos answered empathetically.

"And what purpose would that serve?"

Porthos looked at Athos as if he were daft. "They and their stupid attitudes would be gone."

"True, but would that solve the real issue of their prejudice?"

Aramis, who had been quiet up to this point joined in. "So, you are saying by Treville letting them remain musketeers, he is trying to change them into better people?"

Athos shrugged. "Not really, but if he dismissed them, they would return to their homes and say how they had been dismissed unjustly. You can be sure the story they told their parents, siblings, and friends would not be accurate nor start out with 'I was responsible for killing a man'. They would give their one-sided view and spread the poison. At least here, under Treville's watchful eye and guiding presence, there is a possibility they could change their minds."

"Not bloody likely," Porthos declared. "And we'll be the ones to suffer."

"So be it. At least I will be suffering for a cause I believe in, and not because Aramis is trying to teach me to be a good patient by making me drink his vile creations," Athos glared at the marksman.

Aramis smiled slyly at his friend. "And is it working?"

"No," Athos stated stubbornly before letting loose a giant yawn. "And I shall be getting out of this bed and leaving, right after I take a quick nap." And as quick as a candle being blown out, Athos closed his eyes and was asleep.

Porthos chuckled. "You drugged him didn't you."

Aramis rose from the table to straighten the blanket over Athos' prone form. "Of course. One of the good things about bitter draughts is it is easy to disguise the narcotic. And this seemed more humane than tying him to the bed."

"That's true." Porthos pulled out a deck of cards. "Play?"

"Why not," Aramis said as he joined his friend at the table.

"Do you feel justice was done, to those men?" Porthos asked as he dealt the cards.

"I have to admit, I'm not sure. I hear what Athos said, but…"

"Yeah, but…"

"But, I also feel certain we have not seen the end of this story yet. Nor Roudon. He is a dangerous enemy and we'd best watch our backs."

"Like always."

"Like always," Aramis agreed. "Now, take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves. I won't have you cheating."

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE

And so we have come to the end of this tale. As you can see, there is room for a sequel. I know many were hoping that our villain would get his just desserts, however, that will need to wait for the future. I'm a slow writer who is often short on free time, and this tale took almost a year to write. It was dragging on for so long, I was getting bored with it. You can ask my beta, I even forgot what some of the character's names were in the tale. Thank goodness she catches all that stuff. So, I decided to end this here and start a fresh in a bit. I have another tale in the works that I would like to finish first. Until then, feel free to leave a last review, be open to those not like yourself, and enjoy life.


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